


Composition in Black and White

by CaptainJacq



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-12
Updated: 2011-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-23 16:22:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 65,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainJacq/pseuds/CaptainJacq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A painting is stolen from a private gallery down town, but that’s not all going on in New York White Collar. Peter is being toyed with, Neal is leverage, Jones is caught in the crossfire; and that’s just the beginning. Some things are connected, some are not; but before Diana can figure it all out, it all takes a turn for the worse and Mozzie might wind up being the only one who can save the day. (Canon compliant up to 3x08 As you were. Set 4 months before the end of Neal's Parole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

It started with a number.

It was addressed to Peter and left at the front desk in a nondescript envelope early Tuesday morning, by a gentleman with the blandest features the security guard had ever seen. It was delivered to Peter as he headed for the elevators.

By the time it reached him, it was over an hour old and when he pulled up the footage of the delivery there was little more than a standard courier dropping off the same plain white envelope to the front desk.

When he followed up with the courier company they didn’t even have cameras in their offices for a visual and there wasn’t even a record of the job existing outside of the delivery log of one - long-employed - courier who easily matched the man in the video of the lobby. He had nothing to hide and there was nothing to find.

As Hughes advised, the contents weren’t an actual threat; it was more confusing than alarming and unless Forensics could find something, to leave it for now.

All the same, it kept Peter’s attention even as he attempted to turn his focus back onto more pressing matters.

Like Neal.

Not that there was much to go on there, either.

For two weeks they’d been working case after case of mind numbing insurance fraud, mortgage fraud, and a brief abating case the week before involving a Ponzi scheme that on a good day they’d have passed along to the probies and taken bets on who would solve it first. Neal had solved the thing in the time it took everyone to start thinking about lunch. The rut had the whole department working in mind numbing, repetitive tedium. With Neal, it had been making him skittish.

Which - if anything - was _actually_ counter-productive, especially with regard to Peter’s sense of ease. The first week it had been fine. Neal had been Neal, finding new ways to complain just to keep himself entertained. By halfway through the second week though, Neal had grown quiet and distracted, putting off the work as much as he could, flittering back and forth from the coffee pot like no one would notice.

It had been a gradual change at first, just a faraway stare that kept driving. But it was getting worse as the week progressed and it was all building up and about to drive Peter mad. The last thing he needed was suspicious letters turning up in his mail. _Especially_ when they weren’t even clear on what they were suggesting or threatening.

It wasn’t like it was much of anything, really. It was a small piece of quality white paper with ‘one’ spelled out in perfect Courier and nothing more. Standard size, standard ink, standard typeface; it had nothing else to give.

Not that he had much time to dwell. Neal had barely made it into the office, some three quarters of an hour behind Peter, before the call came in Tuesday morning.

It was a big job, too: Art theft.

Finally.

Art theft always made Hughes anxious and authoritative and naturally made Neal rather enthusiastic. Which - given the current situation - was going to make everything just _perfect_ , Peter thought, much like shoving them all in the cauldron already over the witches fire after spending two weeks in chilled drizzle. Over the years Peter had watched how Neal reacted to different cases. Art theft always seemed to make him determined to wrap up the case like it was a personal vendetta against him.

Especially when it was sloppy.

As Peter soon found out, this case wasn’t sloppy, and he soon understood Hughes’ anxiety even though he usually understood Neal’s infatuation with a theft that was challenging anyway. While the sloppy ones made Neal determined to rub their faces in their mistakes, the smart ones always made him edgy and determined to beat them. It didn’t help that these sorts of cases tended to bring up references to Caffrey’s past crimes. There was nothing that annoyed Neal more than having his face rubbed in the future of a possibly better target than he had been. It was the same cycle, time and again.

This didn’t seem to be much different.

Except for the part about Neal.

With Neal, it didn’t play out at all as Peter had hoped.

A small part of Peter had hoped that this case would give Neal the boost back into the chipper detective that lurked in his head, but in its place, Neal was still only half there and Peter’s caution officially raised itself a few notches.

They were called in to a private gallery down town and the drive down didn’t at all help his attempts to stay focused. Mostly due to Neal. There was a tightness around Neal’s mouth and a tired droop of his eyes that Peter couldn’t help but notice and his quiet non-descript prodding was gently rebuked and dissipated with a finality that usually wasn’t in any of Neal’s persona’s. It was not exactly comforting.

By the time they arrived, Jones had been there for almost twenty minutes and was just going over the last of the details with a man Diana carefully informed Peter and a half-listening Neal, was the manager of the gallery.

Neal didn’t stick around to hear any further details; instead he turned himself to casing the joint. Or carefully staking out the crime scene, Peter reminded himself.

But a small part of him couldn’t help but keep one eye pinned on Neal. In the three and a half years he’d been working with his friend, he had discovered many facets of Neal’s character and that all of them weren’t necessarily good for the development of rehabilitation. This was a facet Peter hadn’t seen in months. The last time Neal had been disinterested and somber had been after Neal had been shot. It had lasted nearly three weeks after Neal had come back to work and then it was as if the whole thing had never happened. Something had flipped in his head and he was back to being Neal.

These days, serious and quiet was a sure sign that Neal’s brain was going over things that didn’t involve taking a painting off a gallery wall.

All the same, Peter tried to pin back his demanding sense of accusatory caution as he watched Neal walk the length of the room, picking out the security camera’s and no doubt their blind spots, murmuring briefly with one or two of the attending agents. It was typical Neal, even if it was typical Neal turned down a few notches.

And it was good they had a proper case finally, too. Peter needed the distraction. Neal on the other hand, Peter thought watching as a pretty blonde witness - a badge with Mandy, Assistant Manager, pinned to her blouse - trotted over in six inch heels and smiled at Neal. Neal probably could have used something a little further away from his past career path as a means of jumping back into the game after two weeks of boredom. The kid had just over four months to decide what he was going to do with his life. The fact Neal had stuck around this long meant a lot to Peter. He was proud of it. It meant he’d done his job. But that didn’t stop the investigations they were working reminding Neal of his skills, of his challenges and the perks of the job. That was the balance Peter knew he was fighting. In the past two weeks they’d already spent far too much time on mind numbing cases but if they could work another four months worth of Medicare fraud or - God forbid - kidnapping consults with Rice’s division just to brighten up the work week, then, well, Neal would be set.

At least in one of Peter’s fantasies.

In that one, Neal would see his purpose and greater good. How much he helped. If all they dealt with was art theft and forgery and fraud, then, well it all felt like one giant advertisement that the other side was losing and needed their man back. It could – and would – swing back and forth between each possible future in Peter’s head like a pendulum.

Both options were currently residing in Neal’s concentrated absence of a smile as he walked the small private gallery, rocking on the toes of his shoes and leaning in to stare intently at minute details on aged canvas, his hands in his pockets.

This was a case that was alluring. Even from the little details Peter could see right in front of him and what little he knew already. It was a Private gallery; priceless works of art and a complicated security system (because the Neal of old liked nothing if not a little challenge to make the win all the more satisfying). It was just the sort of case that should have had Neal aquiver with excitement and determination; this time the man looked little more than habitually attentive when he was looking at anything bar the paintings still on the walls.

“Run me through it?” Peter asked, drawing his gaze away from Neal. Diana glanced the consultant’s way and the look on her face seemed to summarize everything Peter had running through his head. Between Elizabeth, Neal and Diana, Peter was sure the three of them probably knew everything there was about him. The looks they gave him sometimes made him wary that there was nothing he could possibly hide from them. They seemed to be able to understand entire conversations in single words and read complex inner thoughts in a look.

“Sure thing, boss,” Diana murmured. Perhaps it really was time to get her and Jones teams of their own. Jones had been hard pressed to take a job in Boston four months ago and had turned it down. Peter wouldn’t have been surprised if Diana had kept similar offers from him. They had a reputation, after all.

“A Kandinsky was stolen sometime last night,” Diana said, pointing to where there was a decisive empty space on the far wall, nothing but a set of empty wire pins sticking out.

“According to the manager the painting was loaned to the gallery from a private owner for a six week showing starting this weekend. The manager secured the work last night before setting security and leaving about eleven. When he arrived this morning, he found the painting gone,” Diana explained.

Peter stared at the man still talking to Jones with dramatic sweeps of his arms. The art world was full of odd people. Well dressed, well-paid oddities. This one had long hair and was wearing a purple velvet waistcoat, a pocket watch chain strung across his waist, a leather cuff around one wrist and his other hand glinted with rings.

Oddly dressed, well-paid oddities.

“Thanks Diana,” Peter murmured, excusing himself and walking over to Jones and George Wilson, the manager.

“Mr Wilson, this is Special Agent Peter Burke, he’s in charge of the investigation,” Jones said, tucking his pen in the spirals of his notepad as Peter stopped by them.

“Mr Wilson, if I can just ask you a few questions,” Peter asked. The man looked slightly frustrated for a moment but otherwise nodded.

“I don’t know how much more I can say that I haven’t already said twice already, but if it means getting our painting back – oh dear Christ,” something must have occurred to him because the man’s expression turned pained and he covered his face with his hands for a moment. Peter and Jones glanced at each other and Peter tried not to smile.

“I still have to call the owner and tell him. This is going to ruin the whole show, you know,” the man groaned.

Peter squared his shoulders.

“About the show, Mr Wilson, it’s due to open this weekend, that’s correct?”

“Saturday was opening night. If the painting isn’t returned by then, I’ll have to cancel the whole thing. It’ll be a disaster.”

“Well we’ll do our best, Mr Wilson, but I can’t make any promises. Can I ask what time you left last night?”

“About eleven. I arrived at eight thirty this morning and the painting was gone. I called it in immediately.”

“Have you been working those hours regularly?”

“In the last two weeks, yes. There’s been a lot to do, Agent Burke, organizing this show. I was hired to help turn this gallery around and this show had the potential to do it, but now? Now everything could collapse.”

“Do you know anyone who would gain something from the gallery going under?”

“No one specific. This gallery has been here for near on twenty years. No one that I know who has anything to do with this place wants to see it go under.”

“Do you know anyone who could gain from this particular painting going missing? Anyone who might need the money?”

“Agent Burke, the only people who need money in this gallery are the gallery owners themselves, and not for the sake of themselves. For the gallery. They’re rich enough on their own accord. Besides, the painting is owned by a personal friend of theirs! I can assure you there would be no way that they would allow such a thing to happen, let alone concoct a deliberate plan to steal it. The painting is worth more to them in the gallery show than it would on the black market.”

“What about the owner of the work, is this the only piece they have in the show?”

“There is one more. A Manet. Again an early work. She is over there – “ the man said, pointing across the room. At that moment Neal was leaning in close. The pretty blonde had been dealt with and he was once again alone.

“But she was not touched. None of them were except the Kandinsky.”

“What did you do before you left last night?”

“I was finalizing paperwork. It was about eleven, Agent Burke. As I’ve already said, when I packed up. I checked the security as I do every night and then I went home. I’ve been working long hours of late so I was late this morning. Usually I’m here about seven thirty, getting things organized for the day, finalizing arrangements.”

“I understand the work only arrived here yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes, it was brought in by the owner, Mr Macintyre. We set the security into the frame on the Kandinsky and the Manet, input them into the system and ran a test. When Mr Macintyre was satisfied he left and I finalized the paperwork.”

“About what time?”

“Four o’clock? I can check exact times on the logs.”

“If you could get us those. We’ll need them for the investigation, as well as access to your surveillance equipment and the names of any attending the show on the weekend and any staff.”

“Whatever you need, Agent Burke. Whatever will get the painting back. Please, that is all I ask, that you find it.”

“We’ll do our best,” Peter nodded and the man sighed like it was making a grand gesture before he scurried off to pull out any of the papers Peter had requested.

“Man it’s glad to be back on the good stuff,” Jones said, with a small conservative smile, pocketing his notebook.

“Ah Jones, you gotta love the paper work if you’re going to move up in the world.”

“Two guesses why I stayed then,” Jones grinned, wandering over to Wilson. Peter watched him go before turning his attention back to Neal. Guess it was about time to see what the wonder thief had found.

“You get any closer and you’re going to get your nose on the paint,” Peter pointed out as he wandered over to Neal, who had moved over to another Kandinsky.

“Peter, even as long as oils take, these are dry. Or as dry as they’ll get.”

“Well I guess after one hundred years they would, yes,” Peter shrugged. Neal glanced over wryly.

“This painting dried about a month ago,” he said conversationally, like he wasn’t dropping a bombshell.

“A month ago? You mean it’s a forgery?”

“Yep,” Neal said, smacking his lips, a small smile sneaking through as he rocked back on his heels. His hands still in his pockets.

“Whoever forged it was good; they’ve got good technique, they managed to match well enough to pass unless you were looking for it.”

“Then why were you?”

“It wasn’t the technique that got to me; it was the aging. Whoever did that needs their hands smacked, it’s horrible.” He scrunched his nose in distaste. Peter tried not to shake his head at him.

“So we’re dealing with a stolen Kandinsky and a forged one. Which one came first?” Peter asked, leaning in to look at the work himself. How Neal recognized things like that never really ceased to amaze him. As much as he knew, he didn’t know what in the slightest to look for to differentiate between a work painted last week and one painted last century except with a court order.

Neal shrugged at Peter’s question, looking nonchalant.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if this one was swapped out before it even reached here. I don’t think they’d have swapped it out last night. They could have, but then they probably would have had a forgery for the stolen one as well.”

“Unless they didn’t know it was here. The stolen one – “

“ _The Blue Rider._ ”

“- It only arrived yesterday afternoon.”

“You think they’d go to all the trouble of painting and aging one painting to get away with the theft, only to steal another one on a whim? Peter these guys are good. They didn’t set off the alarms at all, the manager only knew the work was stolen when he showed up and it wasn’t on the wall. It wasn’t cut out of its frame and this place has top of the line video surveillance and weight detectors on each work similar to the Powell. Whoever did this was good, they could have got away with stealing this one for days, maybe even weeks without anyone knowing and they’d blow all that up because there’s something else they like? No.”

“So taking the second work was a calculated risk.”

“They were sending a message.”

“Making it obvious they’d done something.”

“Whoever did this, Peter, they were good.”

“We’re better. Wrap it up, we’ll take this back to the Bureau and go from there,” Peter said clamping a hand on Neal’s shoulder. He couldn’t help but smile. This case was going to be _good_.

It was a pity Neal had to go and ruin it by acting a little less like himself and setting off all Peter’s warning bells.

***

“What have we got?” Peter asked a few hours later as he entered the conference room. Diana and Jones were talking between themselves at the table, while Neal was perched on the cabinet at the end of the room going through the file, a concentrated expression on his face. He barely looked up as Peter entered. Diana and Jones sat up and turned their attention to him immediately.

“ _The Blue Rider_ ,” Diana said, bringing up a photograph of the missing work on the screen. Peter stared at it.

“According to the security system the alarm on the frame was set at three fifty seven yesterday afternoon,” Jones replied. “The forgery was logged in at ten thirty three on the fourteenth.”

“Three days ago. When did the computer log recognize a time stamp for when the alarm was disconnected?”

“It didn’t, according to the alarm, the paintings were still there.”

“Someone hacked the alarm system,” Jones surmised. “Wilson said he’s the only one who knows the combination for the weight detectors. He’s made sure of it.”

Neal finally looked up, pushing himself off the cabinet.

“I think there’s more to it than just the codes,” he said.

“You’re thinking inside job?” Diana asked, looking towards him.

“It’d make sense,” Neal said, wandering over to the table and opening the file he’d been looking at to a photograph of the missing work.

“’ _The Blue Rider_ ’ was part of a private collection. So was ‘ _Fugue_ ’,” Neal said, watching as Diana brought up a photo of the second forged work on the screen. “They were owned by different people but the gallery was set to show three pieces by Kandinsky, one of them was swapped out with a forgery, one stolen and the third was left alone as far as I could tell. It doesn’t feel like a coincidence. This gallery had some serious works on show. But ‘ _Blue Rider_ ’ by other standards is the absolute pick. Abstracts are what Kandinsky was famous for and _that_ was what was forged, but ‘ _Blue Rider_ ’ was the painting that named Der Blaue Reiter, the art movement that was fundamental to the evolution of expressionism. It’s a priceless work and the gallery didn’t advertise showing it – for some absurd reason. The _forgery_ on the other hand, is all over the gallery’s website as an oncoming attraction. Plenty of time for a forgery to be cooked up.”

“So we focus on who knew ‘ _Blue Rider_ ’ was going to be shown and where that leads us,” Peter said, turning to face his agents.

“Diana, check everyone who knew the gallery was set to show that painting. Look into anyone set to attend this show; I want to know the ins and outs of the function. Jones, check Interpol and any local CI’s, I want to know if there’s any forger’s in town that could have worked this job. Neal, focus on the paintings, check your channels for anyone who might have been after that particular painting. Let’s see what we can uncover.”

The three of them nodded, collecting the files together and headed back down to the bullpen. Peter watched as the three of them talked between themselves for a moment before separating towards their desks. Neal all but collapsed into his chair and wearily leaned over his desk. Peter frowned. This wasn’t normal Neal. It hadn’t really been normal Neal all week, but it hadn’t been this pronounced. Whatever it was, it was getting worse. Not that it was going to be something troublesome. If it was, then the kid would have been more secretive. This was moving into more open territory as each day passed and it clearly wasn’t just about the paperwork rut anymore. Normal Neal would be happy they had another case, an exciting case; normal Neal would be leaning back in his chair trying to catch someone’s eye as they passed by his desk; doing anything to stretch the time before he actually had to stare at the pages in front of him. Now, however, Neal was hunched over already, his body language screaming to be left alone.

Peter’s frown deepened as he let himself into his office and sat down at his desk. He’d been like that all day. Almost from the moment he’d dropped his bombshell at the gallery he’d slunk off to the corner and watched the chaos unfold around him. It wasn’t the case itself, and it clearly wasn’t the tedious desk work. Neal was dramatic but not like this. Peter didn’t know what it was, but there was clearly something pressing on his mind, and he’d have asked what was wrong already if Elizabeth hadn’t already stressed it best to leave Neal to his thoughts and making his own decisions once the unavoidable six month milestone rose it’s head and the end of Neal’s parole was suddenly visible on the horizon. Peter had almost understood the caution then, but that didn’t mean that it had to continue.

He picked up his phone and dialed his wife. It was probably best to check first.  
It only rang three times before Elizabeth picked up.

“ _Hey Honey,_ ” she smiled, her voice happy and carefree. She was clearly having a good day. Peter immediately felt bad for calling.

“Hey Hon, how’s the day going?”

“ _Great, everything seems to be ready for tomorrow night. All I have to do is await the typical disaster, deal with it and we’re perfect. How’s the paperwork tedium?_ ”

“At an end, finally.”

“ _That’s great. What’s the case?_ ”

“Art theft.”

“ _Oh, Neal should be happy again._ ”

“Well you’d think so.”

“ _He’s not?_ ”

“That’s actually what I was calling about. Did he mention anything to you when he was at home on the weekend?”

“ _Nothing memorable, honey. He was typical Neal. A little tired, but nothing too out of the ordinary. Why? What’s causing you trouble?_ ”

“He’s being quiet.”

“ _Oh. Not the dreaded quiet. Well, have you tried asking him about it?_ ”

“I thought we agreed not to ask?”

“ _We agreed not to ask about what he’s doing after his parole. Not if something is upsetting him now._ ”

“You think I should?”

“ _If it’s worrying you then its probably worrying Neal. Ask him. Can’t hurt._ ”

“Thankyou, Honey.”

“ _You have any more questions, dear?_ ” she laughed and Peter smiled. He couldn’t stay concerned properly, not when listening to her.

“No, I think I’m alright from here.”

“ _Good. You going to be home for dinner? Or has your case got you all tied up?_ ”

“There’s nothing yet. I’ll call you later?”

“ _Let me know whether Satchmo gets your dinner or not, okay?_ ”

“Okay. Love you.”

“ _Love you,_ ” she said, clearly still smiling as she finally hung up. Peter let the phone rest against his ear for a moment and glanced down at Neal’s desk, the kid was sitting up and chatting to Agent Fenley and from Peter’s distance, that unsettled aura around Neal seemed to have dissipated a little.

It was probably nothing. After all, Neal hadn’t given him reason to worry about extra-curricular activities in months. It was as if something had finally broken and the kid had realized what he was doing with himself. Which was fair enough, given what had happened. Those sorts of situations were enough to give even the hardest agent a change of heart. It had been tough, but they’d got through it. Now it was just the home stretch and while Peter couldn’t help but be cautious, he was really hoping it was as unfounded now as it had been in the six months since Neal was shot. But there was this niggling doubt that had taken root a long time ago that was sprouting seeds again, and as Peter watched the kid finish talking to Fenley and spin in his chair, he tried to pin the seedling back out of the way. He’d talk to him later.

They had a case to solve now; Neal and his hesitancy could wait.

 

***

The day seemed to disappear under Neal’s heels without him noticing.

It had been an early morning, difficult dragging himself out of bed and not all made any easier by their caseload suddenly bursting with a job that required not only concentration but more energy than he was willing to give. The worst part of it all was the fact he knew it was a case that in any other week he’d be joyous to work and he knew that Peter would notice if he hadn’t already. Even if Peter himself seemed distracted by something he kept locking in his top drawer. But even with the added distraction, Peter was Peter and Peter was cautious and inquisitive and right then, that could only lead places Neal really didn’t want or need him to be. By the time they were reaching the mid afternoon slump, Neal had called Mozzie chasing the case, run after two leads of his own and run head first into a brick wall. And by the look on Diana’s face, she was having similar luck. She’d had the luck of tracking down the owners of the gallery that morning for an interview and had to put up with their dramatic tirade, and for follow up, had pulled up a list of fifty people set to attend the party that morning and was having a hard time managing to talk to anyone in person. Neal was beginning to get wary of her and the annoyed look on her face every time she seemed to be redirected to a set of lawyers taking care of their client’s privileged lives.

Even the muffled sound of it wasn’t helping the headache forming behind Neal’s eyes, so when Mozzie called to meet him downstairs it was practically a blessing and he snuck out from under Diana’s hardened gaze and the patronizing tone of an expensive lawsuit in the making.

She was the only one paying him any attention anyway. Peter was currently preoccupied and had his office door closed and Jones hadn’t come back from lunch. Not that Jones needed to, he’d had better luck with his searches that morning; while he had no word of any forger’s Neal thought could have pulled off the work, the Hewlett had shown the two Kandinsky’s before. That had been some six years ago, right when Neal had been in prison and as he’d sat on Jones’ desk and gone through the catalogue information from that previous exhibition it had been with a brooding sense of longing. The gallery had shown some beautiful pieces over the years, but four years previous it took a huge slump in exhibits and sales and it had only been in the last eighteen months, under the direction of their current manager, George Wilson, that it had started to look alive again. The man had a good eye and a fantastic pitch from what Neal had seen and the evidence Jones had pulled up on the gallery. It was a pity the exhibit was under scrutiny now. If everything had gone to plan, it was a show Neal would have liked to see for himself eventually.

Still, despite their research, it was early days, and any real hope of finding the paintings were hinging on whether or not they were fenced quickly or put to ground. Either way, Mozzie’s help was just about needed. That and Neal could use a decent coffee. There was nothing worse than feeling eyes bearing into the back of his head, especially when he was feeling restless himself.

“You’re late,” Mozzie intoned as Neal walked across the square to where he was perched.

“To be fair, Moz, you only called me five minutes ago. I had to slip out.”

“I thought this was for a case?”

“It is.”

“Then why didn’t you just ask?”

Neal gave him a look and Mozzie backed down, but not without wearing a content little smile. Neal shook his head in exasperation.

“Tell me you found something.”

“Something I did,” Mozzie smiled.

“You gonna tell me or just look smug?”

“I think a moment of smug reflection is in order. After all, the investment in knowledge pays the best interest.”

“You going to keep going, Ben Franklin?”

“I could.”

“Please don’t.”

“Your theft was commissioned,” Mozzie said, giving the information all the weight it deserved.

“A designated job? Moz, you’ve outdone yourself.”

“Ah, this was easy,” Mozzie shrugged, still looking pleased with himself. He’d been wearing that look for weeks in different shades of pronouncement. This was a particular smug rendition. “The job was passed around, 50K to take the Kandinsky.”

Well then, Neal raised an eyebrow.

“Any word on who took it?”

Mozzie shrugged.

“Mickie Fist seems to think it was Luccson. No word on who the Boeksy is. Or your Forger; _that_ part of the deal was on the down-low. I haven’t found anything there.”

“Damn, one could hope. Thankyou, though. Big help, Moz.”

“Whatever I could do,” Mozzie said with a little bow and headed off into the crowd. Neal waited and watched his friend disappear before he turned and started walking towards the coffee shop where he could pick up better coffee and a sandwich.

Mozzie had been hesitant about helping out after Neal had admitted that he wanted to stay out his four year sentence, but ever since Neal had been shot, Mozzie had been worming his way back into almost every case like he was some disturbing fairy godmother. It was worse now, with four months to go Mozzie was back to answering Neal’s every call, showing up at June’s every other night and Neal knew his friend was feeling the edge of his sentence just as badly as he was. Possibly more so. Mozzie was not only waiting out Neal’s incarceration but also that of his big score.

They’d got their hands on the manifest years ago – and while keeping the treasure tucked away had probably been the best course of action in the long term, Neal knew Mozzie was itching to finally sell it. He’d started already, and while they’d got away with it so far, selling one piece discretely only a week ago, he still had no idea how they were going to get rid of it all.

He was waiting for his order of four large lattes with his mind scattered all over the place when he felt the familiar burn of someone’s eyes on his back and all the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He twisted around casually to try and take a good look at the street but there was little more than a mass of people walking by the busy little place and he was ready to pin his paranoia down on the increasingly late nights he was enduring, before out of the corner of his eye he saw a man waiting on the other side of the road. He was wearing a dark suit and glasses and when Neal blinked and rose to his feet for a better look, the man was gone. Like he’d never been there at all.

Unsettled, Neal turned back to wait for his order.

***

When Neal returned to the office, Diana was still on the phone, but her annoyance abated for a moment as he set down a coffee in front of her. The place had only been there six months but its coffee was a step down from imported heaven in a cup, enough to even rival June’s in Neal’s book and it had the entire division thoroughly impressed. As Neal set the tray down on Diana’s desk he couldn’t help but notice the bull pen seemed less chaotic than it had been when he’d slipped out. Jones still hadn’t come back so his coffee landed on Blake’s desk. Neal grinned down at the younger agent as he thanked him before he slipped past and looked up at Peter’s office. Peter was at his desk, back to casually turning over a white piece of paper in his hands with a look of intense concentration on his face. Neal felt a spike of concern take root in his gut. It was only the real tough cases that got Peter’s face that stern. And usually it had something to do with him.

Neal took the stairs and made a point of knocking as he stood in the doorway, coffee in each hand, ready to give Peter time to tuck away the evidence if he really wanted to.  
He didn’t.

“New lead?” he asked, looking down at the paper Peter had clutched in his fingers.  
Peter shook his head and sat back in his chair, turning his gaze on Neal as the young conman crossed the distance and set both coffees on the desk.

“No, something else. Showed up in my mail this morning,” he said, about to tuck it back out of the way in his drawer when Neal leaned over and yanked it out of his hands. Peter scowled and Neal smiled down at him briefly. If Peter really hadn’t wanted him to see it, there had been plenty of time to put it away on the way up here.

“It’s a message,” he said as he stared down at it. Peter was still glaring at him as he turned the card over, gazing at the blank back and the one word written on the front. There was no embellishment at all. It was completely straightforward.

“Oh really, Sherlock,” Peter scowled, looking irritated.

“It’s not this message I’d be worried about, Peter. The number one is a beginning. I’d be worried about what comes after. I’d be worried about number two,” he said, intending to sound at least a little amused but in the end sounding more serious than anything else. Considering his possible tail just downstairs… Neal frowned down at it, briefly glancing back up at Peter.

Peter’s frown seemed to deepen and he held out his hand. Neal handed him back the card and watched him tuck it back in the drawer. Clearly it had annoyed the older man and if Peter wasn’t sharing now, then there wasn’t much to share. If he’d been sharing it with Diana, then he’d have gone out of his way not to let Neal see it. But he’d caught Peter out and he hadn’t rushed to hide anything. That had to mean something. Neal tucked the information away for later.

“Well we’ll deal with that when we come to it,” he said, leaning back in his chair and fixing his gaze entirely on Neal. “Back to business; did Mozzie find anything?”

Peter clearly had similar ideas: work now, mysteries later.

“He did,” Neal said, somewhat cheerfully, sitting down. “This wasn’t just an ordinary theft, it was a commissioned job. 50K to pull it off.”

“That’s an interesting development. Any idea who?”

“The payer and forger? No. The thief? Maybe. Word around is that it was Benny Luccson.”

“A Hacker.”

Neal leant back and shrugged, smiling, mildly impressed. He was long over the surprise at how much information was stored in Peter’s brain. If the man had ever stepped onto the wrong side of the law, he’d have been a formidable rival.

“You know him. And it makes sense, Peter. Luccson could have easily hacked the security alarm to not go off; from there it would have been a matter of taking the paintings off the wall. No conning or thieving about it. Except you know, the _actual_ thieving.”

“If we ignore the forgery for a moment, say it was an outside work and he just had to swap it over. How did he get into the gallery?”

“It would have to be an outside job, Benny Luccson would be lucky to know which end of a paintbrush to use. No, that work was definitely outsourced. As for getting inside, you still thinking inside job?”

“I’d like to, considering what security the place does have and who would have known about the works on show. We’ll know more there when Jones gets back. But I’m guessing you’re going to delight me with something else anyway.”

Neal smiled.

“He’s a hacker, Peter. If the gallery’s security system wasn’t a match for him then a Ransake lock wouldn’t be either. He’d be able to get in. And besides, the system didn’t report any change in weight, and those sensors would have picked something up even if he’d had the codes to disable them. No, he did that on his own.”

“Mmm,” Peter mused.

He was quiet a moment then, and for the briefest second Neal was sure Peter was going to press something else, but then he didn’t. Whatever he was grappling with settled and he nodded. Neal was thankful, beyond the case he didn’t need to be a part of anything that involved Peter Burke and a niggling sense of unease. He had enough of that on his own.

Ever since Mozzie got away with fencing the Picasso he’d felt on edge, and he knew Peter had noticed. Peter always noticed. And now with Peter’s note and his potential tail, well, something felt amiss.

“Alright, let’s look into this Benny Luccson and see if we can pin him down and make him squeal.”

***

Benjamin Luccson looked a bit like a sloth.

It was a fact that kept running in circles around and around Neal’s brain. Lazy and distracting but not anywhere near distracting enough to completely eradicate his own concerns. Not that Luccson’s sloth-like appearance should have been the tipping balance anyway. He had enough to think about concerning the case outside of the man’s visual appearance.

Mozzie’s tip on Luccson had been like unlocking a time bomb inside Peter. Whether it was the excitement of finally having a proper case to work instead of paper trails and algorithms, Peter had latched onto it with vigor and had them chasing down everything they could find on Luccson and his whereabouts. From the information they’d pulled up in the last few hours they knew Benjamin Luccson had originated from Texas, had no siblings, no living parents and no known address in New York. He didn’t have a real on the books job and his file was so full of suspected cases that it was almost as tall as there was distance between New York and his home town.

Neal had never run into him, but he’d heard of him and nothing he had seen had been altogether impressive enough to warrant that to change. But that was the way, really. A lot of the time jobs and associates came down to reputation. You had to have jobs and associates to get your reputation, but once you had it, then everything increased in value and tenacity. Including the crims.

Even with his mile high pile of suspected identity theft, security fraud, and online gambling infringes, Benny Luccson was a hacker still climbing the ladder. That didn’t stop him from being good, because he was. He just wasn’t brilliant. He had no flair. The crooks Neal knew had flair. Mozzie had flair, even if it was heavily stemmed from paranoia. Mozzie was also brilliant. Alex had flair; Hale had pizzazz, which was a whole different ballgame but just as important. To certain extents even Keller had flair. The difference between the hackers Neal knew, like Hardinson and Emmet and Sally, and the likes of Luccson was flair, it was brilliance, and that wasn’t something a thirty seven year old hacker was going to learn. Old cons didn’t learn new tricks, and if they did, they were never that great at them. The art of the con was knowing what you knew you could handle and sticking to it.

Neal had never been very good at the long con; that had been one of his flaws. He couldn’t trust himself with it for very long; pretending he could do, but pretending for a long con was different. He couldn’t compartmentalize his feelings well enough maintain it over an extended period and he knew it. It had been trialed and tested; the first time had been with Mozzie. That lie hadn’t lasted at all. But Mozzie hadn’t asked him to explain or spill his guts and so as time progressed, Neal had attached himself to the older con and not let himself worry over it. The Adler job had been number two, and with that job, Neal had picked up Kate. His parole deal had been number three. And this time, he’d attached himself to Peter.

He still hadn’t figured out whether the con falling through was a blessing in disguise or not. Neal glanced up at Peter’s office. The man had his door shut once again and was currently on the phone. Neal turned his attention back to the file in front of him.

What he did know, though, was that three strikes and you’re out. Neal knew that enough about himself.

He’d struggled with it, but he’d learned. Or was learning.

He didn’t think he could handle another long con, certainly not if it meant leaving Peter behind and no doubt replacing him with someone else that represented everything to do with the new and evolved Neal Caffrey.

Or whoever it was Mozzie had lined up for him to slip into now.

Neal sighed and sat back, leaning in his seat and watching the fumbling agents as many tried to surreptitiously gather their belongings and head home for the night.

But that was what he had lying in front of him. He had four months left on his sentence, and after that, he was a free man, free to choose. Free to disappear or to stay. To keep conning himself he belonged when a part of him knew he never would completely, or start up a whole new con and see how long it lasted with billions in Nazi treasure and a history of what it felt like to have the closest he’d had to family.

It was a daunting choice.

But he had time.

Benny Luccson didn’t have the luxury of time Neal had to contemplate (or rather, over-contemplate) his fate. He didn’t think far enough along the line of his career to wonder whether he could handle an actual robbery and cover his tracks in reality as well as he could digitally. It was that line of thinking that had Neal a little too distracted to the point it was Jones tapping his desk and calling his name that snapped him out of it.

“You wanna come out for a drink?” Jones asked, his jacket tucked into the crook of his arm. He looked ready to go at it. Neal sighed.

“Thanks Jones, but no. I’ll give you a raincheck,” he said, smiling and reaching for his own jacket.

“Alright man,” Jones said, glancing back one last time as he tapped Neal’s desk a second time and disappeared towards the elevators.

Neal cast one last look up at Peter’s closed up office, the man still inside, before he slid into his jacket and made his own way to the elevators and back towards June’s.

***

It was late by the time Peter left for home the night before, his brain still buzzing with the layers of mystery shoving at him from all sides. Usually he liked a good mystery, a good case, but whether it was old age or simply the evolution of the cases that had happened in the last four years, a good mystery often had him uneasy more than anything else. And being bombarded with them from three sides was enough to wear him out.

But it didn’t stop his brain buzzing and he followed a late night staring at the face of Benny Luccson, with a morning staring at Neal’s tracking data.

It had been weeks since he’d actively gone out of the way on an ordinary day to watch Neal’s movements. Maybe even months. There had been an undercover op, a charity function during their last case before the drought and ensuing paperwork hell that had to have been the last time he’d logged into the system and since then, Neal hadn’t gone out of his way being suspicious anyway. There was a night last week when he’d gone to Jones’ apartment. But then, they’d all been there that night. Poker night. Neal had gone back the day after but only stayed for twenty minutes before leaving again, detouring down Lafayette, stopping again briefly before looping back to June’s. There was nothing in his off hours that seemed to stand out – the kid had, if anything, lulled into a life vaguely suburban. It was something that was probably causing _Mozzie_ undue distress, but with Neal it had been evolutionary. All of it leading back from the Thompson case and that was a time that had them all anxious. If Mozzie was upset about Neal falling under the thumb of The Man, Peter was sure the paranoid conman wasn’t forcing Neal into anything that Neal didn’t lead himself into first. Which was why this was all so unsettling. It could have just been an off day – there had been a few of those in Neal’s first few weeks back six months ago and a few since then. But this was beyond that. It felt more than just a few off mornings that lead into off afternoons. Neal didn’t have multiple off days. He had one, but then he moved on, hid it better or completely and carried on as normal. He didn’t let it show and he certainly didn’t let it snowball. Not publically, at least.

It was almost a cry for help. Peter let himself entertain the thought as he stared at the blinking dot on his screen as the program set Neal as stationary within a building.  
Federal Plaza.

Peter waited and watched the elevators.

“You’re late,” Peter mused when Neal finally arrived; he stopped in the doorway and leaned against the frame. He looked exhausted.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Neal shrugged. “Wound up sleeping late.”

Peter took a second to scrutinize Neal’s somewhat wilting exterior. The kid looked badly put together. He’d gone through the same motions he did every other morning, but today it was like he’d cut corners. That and it was a testament to how Neal’s usual natural vibrancy really brought his façade to life. Today it was almost… wilted and stretched and it wasn’t the look of a man who waltzed into corporate companies and conned anyone into believing whatever came out of his mouth. But whatever the actual cause of Neal’s disarray, he certainly looked like he was telling the truth.

Peter nodded and decided not to push it. Perhaps he needed to talk with the little guy. Or make Neal talk to El. Both of those could work.

“Right, well, while you were sleeping, I was thinking about what you said yesterday, about hacking the Ransake lock.” He’d actually done that when _he_ was supposed to be sleeping, apparently keeping El awake with the sound of the cogs turning in his head.

“It looks like that’s exactly what he did. But that’s not the good part. Jones found that it turns out Wilson had scheduled a check on his security a week ago as part of the process getting the artworks from private owners. It was a good faith check and completely outsourced.”

Peter watched as the light in Neal’s eyes ignited for the day and he caught on. He never really got over seeing that.

“So Luccson shows up to check the security, he gives himself a back door into the system, which would then allow him access to the cameras, security codes and locks. It’s a good plan.”

“It is. I’ve got Jones going through footage from last week, seeing if we can get evidence of Luccson at the gallery. If we can, we’ve got a solid lead for a warrant.”

“If Luccson had access to the gallery cameras Peter, he’d have wiped his image from the system while he was there. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was wearing a disguise either.”

“We may get lucky.”

“We might,” Neal mused, but he didn’t sound convinced. He was quiet a moment and when Peter looked up at him he was wearing a look on his face Peter had long ago connected to one tossing up a thought that may or may not work.

“You going to share?” Peter prompted and Neal cocked his head.

“I was just thinking. What if we had the gallery staff sit for a sketch artist? If they can sketch Luccson without even seeing him on the cameras, then that counts, right?”

“It does.” Peter smiled and Neal squared his shoulders, clearly happy with himself and his disarray dissipating as he latched back onto the case. Peter smiled. He’d figure it out.

“We’ll see if IT can pull anything from the camera’s, if not I’ll have Diana organize to have Wilson and his assistant sit with an artist. See if we can prove it’s him.”

“Then we’ve just got to find him,” Neal mused.

***

George Wilson was gangly and awkward, like he didn’t know quite what to be doing with himself at any correct time but he knew if he acted dramatic then he could sway an audience whether the situation required it or not. It reminded Neal of a very large, middle-aged teenager.

“How much longer do I have to stay?” the man asked for the second time as the artist finished the outlining features, turning what was by any means a minimal representation of a face into something far more recognizable. The artist had been there for an hour, carefully working his way through with Wilson and while Peter had come and gone from the room to check on things, Neal had stuck around, standing in the corner and watching the evolution of the process.

When he’d been fourteen and intent on following his father’s footsteps into the force, he’d spent half his time teaching himself everything he could possibly need to be as good a cop as his imagination had made his imaginary father. He’d done everything, from reading books on the law and maneuvers, policy and crime to learning how to shoot and when to shoot and why sometimes it was just _necessary_. He’d spent the other half of his time drawing. It hadn’t been part of his grand plan; it had been more of a compulsion than anything, for his entire life. When he hadn’t been training himself, he’d been staring at paintings, learning their names, sketching the outlines and how the shading worked, what colors made what and in what quantity was more useful for one technique to the other. He’d always liked how things worked, how he could control anything he wanted as long as he knew enough.

When he’d been fourteen he’d been torn between that obsession with the masters and his obsession with the law and at one point he’d considered trying to be a police sketch artist. At the time it had been the most viable melding of his two opposing obsessive hobbies and talents. At the time it had seemed perfect.

Some six months later he learned a destructive lesson and his two hobbies melded in a way very differently to the one he’d originally imagined.

He still wasn’t sure whether the decision was the right one. He knew in a way it was definitely a wrong choice, but it was a road he’d been lead down regardless and he had met people and seen things, _done_ things that he never could have dreamed of if he’d stuck it out and been a cop. A proper cop.

Nothing pretend.

Neal looked over at Peter, who was standing closer to the sketch artist.

Peter was never pretend. That didn’t stop Neal playing pretend for him. In Peter’s head he could have easily wound up an accountant; in Neal’s head Peter had always been an agent. He’d wanted to be a cop when he was a kid and had simply followed that idea out of imagination and into reality, growing taller along the way.

“Give it a little longer, Mr Wilson, we need to be certain that this is the man who came in to service your alarm system last week,” Peter said.

The man nodded and Peter sighed, glancing over at Neal before looking back down at the work and deciding something. He moved across the room to where Neal was standing and with a hand on Neal’s back guided him just out of the two men at the table’s hearing range. His expression changed now he was out of the immediate spotlight and Neal felt a pleasant surge of happiness at Peter’s irrefutable annoyance clearly written all over his face.

“The man was desperate for us to find his painting yesterday and now all he’s doing is complaining.”

Neal smiled, rising to the bait.

“He’s a creative man, Peter, and he’s under strain, give him time.”

“Give him time, listen to you, Mr Compassion.” He paused, looking back over at Wilson and then back at Neal. “At least the drawing matches Luccson. Have you had any word on the forgery?”

Neal shook his head.

“No one I know is owning up to it. I’d say with whatever they were paid there was a hefty discretion payment involved.”

It was professional courtesy after all, concerning a forgery. It was only the cocky bastards who signed their own work. Usually ones who eventually got caught, himself included. Even though his own signature on those very early bonds hadn’t even lead to the eventual catching or convicting. He’d screwed up elsewhere. Thankfully his other works had been free of that tiny interminable NC. He’d learned as he progressed. If their forger had any sense of place, then there wouldn’t be a signature in the work, no matter how close Forensics or art consultants looked. It was the benefactor who was cocky in the arrangement, not the forger. The aging was evidence of that. Whoever had cooked up the forgery was good, but could be a lot better. If they didn’t get caught.

Neal glanced back at Wilson, feeling Peter’s gaze on him anyway.

“Well that makes our job a little harder. Jones still hasn’t had any luck on locating Luccson,” Peter said, frowning.

“Give it time; we can’t waste our only good case by solving it in two days, Peter. We only just got out of the deluge of paperwork.”

Neal watched the fight to smile battle out in the muscles in Peter’s face, starting in his brows and working their way down.

“Luccson would have gone underground, Peter. He’d be laying low while the job is high profile. It’s basic logic. We won’t be able to find him through his code. Even a hacker like him won’t be traceable.”

“Well we’re going to have to find something to trace him with because we need those works back.”

“I’ll ask around, see if anyone’s seen him. Or knows where he’d hang out.”

Peter looked pleased and Neal cast a glance back over at the sketch artist and Wilson. Wilson was leaning back in his chair.

“Agent Burke?” the artist, Jonny, called, holding up the page. Peter took it out of his hands and smiled down at it.

“Benjamin Luccson,” he said, content. Neal glanced between Jonny and the page.  
How different his life could have been.

***

Jones and Diana had been working their way through Luccson’s files, trying to filter through the mess of online aliases, loop holes, known jobs and associates. It was almost as tedious as the paper work had been for the last two weeks. The only upside was the take and the stakes of it all. It was more exciting, but it was brain numbing work going through the man’s files. He had a truckload of them.

“Got another case in Delaware, he used the Montaigne ID again,” Diana murmured and Jones glanced up at her. Her mouth was curved down in a frown. Her expression was nothing on Caffrey’s though and Caffrey had managed to skip out on the files half an hour ago.

Not that it was the files; the guy had been all but sullen for days. Not to mention the fact he’d had almost three closed door meetings with Peter this week already. Something was going on, and Clinton didn’t envy him at all. Neal wasn’t a huge talker about the things that mattered, but it hadn’t slipped past Jones how close the ticker was counting down to his release. Jones wasn’t sure if Neal knew anyone knew about the tiny fold on his desk calendar, marking the day when everything came down to a choice, because Clinton knew there was a choice involved. He knew Neal had a partner on either side of the line, and it came down to choosing one. The hard part was that both of them had his back in ways the other couldn’t uphold; Peter in the real world, the right world, Mozzie on the shadier side of things. He could trust both of them, but ultimately he could only keep one of them. Clinton knew that the Little Guy was only sticking around for Neal, he had some loyalty, but it went through Neal first and foremost. If Neal picked Peter’s world over Mozzie’s, the Little Guy wouldn’t be sticking around. Clinton would almost put money on it. He didn’t know everything Neal and Mozzie had been through, but they’d gone through a lot as a team. They protected each other. But he didn’t know if it was going to be enough. Sometimes he wished he could forget how to profile as easily as everyone else seemed to forget that he could.

Clinton sighed and looked down at the files once again and tried to put his brain to task.

Benny Luccson was a loner, a hacker, he didn’t work with anyone. His associates were few and far between, especially on the bigger jobs.

He’d hacked the security system on his own and it had all been fine. The weight sensors hadn’t gone off and he’d made his escape without even leaving a signature. There hadn’t even been any evidence of a system wipe when the video footage had been deleted either. The difference there was it had to have been removed personally, the cameras were hard wired and had kept recording after the deleted footage. If they had been disabled at all then the alarm would have been triggered. It was a harder operation to wipe the footage than to simply interrupt the weight algorithms, and the fact there was no evidence at all of Luccson’s work meant one thing…

Clinton pushed his chair back from his desk and jogged up the stairs to Peter’s office. Neal was sitting opposite him, tossing his rubber band ball between his hands and Peter was leaning back in his chair.

“What is it Jones?” Peter asked as he came in, leaning forward. Jones grinned.

“We missed something. The gallery has camera’s filming the entrance as well as the back room where all the security controls are.”

“Yeah, which IT checked. The footage was deleted,” Neal said, twisting in his chair to look at Jones properly.

“But it was stored in the control room,” Jones prompted.

“In order for Luccson to get into the back room to hack the system, then to get out, he’d have to go past the cameras,” Peter picked up. Neal looked between the two of them. Jones smiled.

“ _Exactly_ , the place uses hardwired cameras that download directly to the hard drive in the security room. He wouldn’t have been able to hack it remotely. He’d have to have been in that server room and he’d have to use software to delete any footage of him leaving the room. Which he didn’t. There was no evidence of any coding left behind. There wasn’t even any coding to gain access to the system.”

Jones watched the realization creep over their faces. Peter was a millisecond behind Neal.

“Is there anything on the tapes?”

“Hard drive, Peter. It’s on a hard drive,” Neal murmured. Peter shot him a dark look and Neal fell quiet. Jones shook his head.

“No. We checked already. The footage was deleted completely from the time he was there.”

“Which means we have an exact timestamp for when he was there,” Peter smiled.

Jones’ smile widened.

“And that he had a partner.”

All three of them grinned in unison.

Peter pushed his chair back.

“Neal, get Diana, meet in the conference room. Jones, bring up that footage, let’s find out what time Mr Luccson broke in and who deleted our footage.”

It didn’t take them long. Jones queued the footage while Diana came up the stairs after Neal and the three of them gathered around the monitor while Jones watched his laptop.

He pressed play and let the footage roll. It took a good twenty minutes of careful fast forwarding before Neal called stop.

“Go back a minute, then play it, half speed,” he said and Jones complied, watching the counter in the top corner. This time he caught what he’d missed before. The counter jumped a good twenty minutes.

“The last frame before he deleted it is at eleven minutes past one, this is the last frame before it started filming again. At thirty two minutes past one.”

“That’s twenty one minutes he spent inside,” Diana said, turning around to face Jones.

“Sloppy,” Neal said. Peter laughed.

“How long would it have taken you?”

“Anything more than seven minutes and you’re pushing it,” Neal shrugged.

Diana looked unconvinced. “Seven minutes?”

“That’s all I’d need. Allegedly.”

“Even to break in, hack the system, delete the footage and get out?”

“Seven minutes, tops.” Neal grinned and Diana rolled her eyes. Jones laughed.

Peter shook his head, looking between them all, exasperated.

“That is great. Absolutely great, but it’s not getting us any closer to catching him.”

“We will though, Peter, you just gotta have faith. You got me, after all. Fast forward the footage until the next morning.”

Jones marked the time stamps and then ran the video. Neal was back to watching the screen avidly, Peter and Diana kept watching Neal and then glancing at the screen.

“Stop,” Neal said and Jones stared at the screen.

“Go back ten seconds,” Neal said.

Jones moved it back.

Then hit play and the four of them watched as a tall blonde girl let herself into the gallery at ten minutes to seven. Before George Wilson was even set to be there on his early pre-opening schedule.

“The Manager’s assistant is at work rather early don’t you think?” Neal asked, turning to glance at Peter with a smirk. Jones tried not to laugh at the annoyance all over Peter’s face.

“Queue up the camera of the surveillance room,” Peter asked and the view moved to watch as Mandy Brenner let herself into the room and the time counter jumped to some fifteen minutes later as the girl let herself out of the room.

“And there we have our inside man,” Peter said, sounding smug.

“Good work,” he said to the three of them.

“Now let’s bring Miss Brenner in. Let’s see what she has to say about deleting evidence.”

 

***

It was after nine o’clock before Neal managed to escape Peter’s clutches and go home that night. He was aching and dragging his heels as he let himself in at June’s and shuffled towards the stairs, not exactly looking forward to the three story climb but desperate for his bed. But before he could get there though, June caught him in the atrium.

“Neal, darling, you got another postcard, from Florence this time,” she called, coming out of the sitting room. The old woman was swathed in a silk dressing gown and she tutted as Neal turned to meet her.

“You look exhausted,” she governed and Neal smiled. Or tried to. There was never much point in lying to June.

“Long day,” he said, tucking his suit jacket into the crook of his arm.

And it had been. It hadn’t taken long to find Mandy Brenner; she’d been going to work for Wilson as if nothing had happened. But it hadn’t taken her long to break once Peter had made it obvious she hadn’t been so good at hiding her tracks.

A quick backlog into her family circumstances made it easy to see why she’d done it, too. Her brother had leukemia and her parents had been having trouble paying the bills. It was a horrible set of circumstances and a desperate set of actions. It was understandable, given how much exposure she had to the clients walking in and out of the gallery in shoes that cost more than a months worth of chemotherapy sessions for her brother. Helping out for a little bit of help had seemed like a worthy trade. Neal couldn’t help but hope the girl would be lucky enough to get a fair sentence. And she’d flipped on Luccson as well, which would help, given that she was behind the passable forgery with the not so passable aging. She’d copied masters before during her degree, trying to hone her own technique, but trying to make it look like it was almost a century old was something she hadn’t done before and it had showed. All in all it had been a long afternoon, not at all made any easier by Peter’s determination to get right on the information Mandy had given them and put Luccson’s second floor meeting place under surveillance. Neal had been stuck in the van for hours before Peter took pity on him and let him go.

June held the postcard between her fingers and made another tutting sound as Neal fixed his gaze on her properly.

“Have you eaten?” she asked.

“Not yet, I was thinking more along the lines of a shower and bed,” he said with a small shrug. He watched as her conviction changed and he knew that was out of the question almost as soon as it had left his mouth. He should have fibbed, but he could never hold anything against her.

“You should eat first. Come, I’ll fix you something.”

Over the last three and a half years Neal had learned to never argue with her either. As much as he appreciated the sentiment, he really did just want to sleep. But June offered him no room to argue, and he knew she knew he wasn’t sleeping as well as he was pretending either.

She knew the clock was ticking, too.

Her and Mozzie probably bickered about it all back and forth as much as they pleased. He wouldn’t be surprised if they did. A lot had changed in the last twelve months.

All the same, Neal followed her through to the empty kitchen and slid onto a stool as June set his postcard down on the other corner and went for the fridge.

“Sandwich enough, dear?”

“Sounds perfect,” Neal said, smiling softly.

June hummed and started rifling. There really was far too much food in there considering she was mostly on her own, bar her staff and even those had cut down to bare minimum. There was Lauren, the cleaner who worked Tuesdays and Thursdays and Courtney, who cooked every Monday, Wednesday and Friday unless June needed extra.

Besides Neal and Mozzie, there was precious little to fill her big house. Her grandchildren were sparse and occupied by school, or half way across the country. June was one major reason Neal was hesitant to still cut and run. To do what they needed, it required being ruthless, abandoning everything and running as far and as fast as they could, and he couldn’t bear the idea of leaving her alone. Not after everything she’d given him.

Given them.

“You’ve got a new case, then?” June asked, smiling as she glanced back at him. Neal nodded.

“Art theft, the Hewlett had a Kandinsky go missing.”

“Oh, I do like Kandinsky,” June murmured, pausing.

“Aioli, dear?” she asked and Neal nodded. The tub went on the table, along with lettuce, onion and a tub of roast chicken.

Neal reached for the postcard and stared down at it. It was another photograph made out as a standard postcard. Alex seemed to have travelled out of France. She’d been sending him cards ever since she’d left New York. She’d come to stay, called in from God knows where (courtesy of Mozzie) to form some form of intervention after the Thompson case almost got him killed. Peter had been furious, Neal had been annoyed, and Alex and Mozzie had been frustrated they hadn’t been able to turn him around and run then and there. But Alex had stuck around for the month it took him to get back on his feet and then she had disappeared like she’d never been there at all. The only difference between then and now, was the almost weekly postcards marked with stamps from all over, all written on the back of photographs and all strangely personal in a very Alex, informal, encoded sort of way.

“You have another letter as well, Dear. Upstairs. It arrived this morning by personal courier.”

Neal looked up, a little alarmed but tried to school his features. He didn’t know how well it worked, given by the look on June’s face.

“Thankyou, June,” he said, softly. She smiled and looked back down at the ingredients she was putting together. She finished constructing the sandwich and put it in front of Neal.

“Finish that, dear, then take yourself off upstairs,” she smiled at him again and set about putting the food back in the fridge. Neal ate dutifully and was almost finished as she rested her hand on his shoulder.

“Goodnight, dear,” she murmured. Neal smiled and kissed her cheek goodnight.

“Sleep well, June,” he replied, watching her as she disappeared up to her own rooms.  
Finishing the sandwich he rinsed the plate and set about climbing the stairs up to his apartment.

It was waiting for him on the table. Neal knew what it was before he opened it, but that didn’t stop the sense of unease that unfurled in his gut as he pulled out the small piece of white card and stared at the number spelled out in the middle of it.

Two.

Just like he’d warned Peter. Only with Peter, it had been sent to the office. This one had been sent here, to June’s. Which meant one thing: whoever it was knew where he lived; knew about June. Neal set the card down on his table and ran his hands through his hair.

Damn.

Before Neal had time to feel the pangs of unease settle through him, there was movement on the stairs. Neal turned around just in time to be facing the door when Mozzie burst through.

“I come bearing gifts,” Mozzie said, holding up a bottle of wine. Neal eyed the bottle and then glanced back down at his note.

“You’re not the only one. I got another present earlier,” he tapped the card against his left hand. Mozzie eyed it.

“Did your secret admirer bring a Chteau Lafite Rothschild Pauillac from 1996?”

“No, just possible threats of personal harm. The usual. Not everyone is as courteous as you, Moz.” He sighed.

“I try. So tell me,” Mozzie said, setting the bottle of Rothschild on the table and going to the kitchenette for glasses but Neal didn’t miss the immediate frown on Mozzie’s lips.

“What threats are we dealing with? Snakes? Eels? Snakes and eels?” Mozzie tried to quip but it wasn’t the real joke it had used to be. It was almost funny how much a single act could change just every day conversation. He didn’t mind his shooting coming up, it had to eventually and Neal wasn’t foolish enough to pretend that being alive meant he could put it completely behind him, even as much as he’d like to. That didn’t mean he liked talking about what had happened.

“Nothing specific. Might not even be a threat. They’re playing coy.”

“And what, may I ask, _are_ they playing?”

“The number two,” Neal said wryly. As tired as he was and how nervous the note made him, there was always something soothing about riddling something out with Mozzie. Even something like this.

He set it down on the table.

“That’s confusing,” Mozzie deduced, putting the glasses down and opening the wine. Neal watched as he poured and waited until Mozzie was sitting opposite him before he picked up the glass.

“I’m not the only one getting them. Peter got one, too,” he murmured swirling the wine in his glass. Mozzie picked up the white card and squinted at it.

“The Suit got a card?”

“His was the number one.”

“The loneliest of numbers,” Mozzie mused, but something unknotted in his shoulders.

“And a beginning. I told him to worry when he got number two.”

“Ah, but the second number is yours. Clearly they’re counting up to something. You going to show him?”

“Do you think I should?”

“Does he have a lead?”

“No. There’s nothing so far. Peter’s was delivered to the office.”

“A direct route.”

“And this one was sent here. Which means they know where I live and they know Peter.”

“Think this is about him or you?”

“Hard to say, Moz. I had a tail yesterday.”

“For how long?”

“Not long. After I met with you. He disappeared once I spotted him at the coffee place.”

“Did you tell the Suit?”

“Not yet. I wasn’t sure if they were friendly or not. I didn’t get a good look at him.”

“We should probably tell Peter. And show him the note, too.”

“Mmm,” Neal murmured, looking down at the card and turning it over in his hands. He probably should.

“I can ask around. See if anyone’s been poking where they don’t belong.”

“That’s a good idea, Moz. I’ll see if anyone pulled anything else up on Peter’s note that no one’s saying.”

“Because the Suit won’t notice you poking around,” Mozzie snorted.

Neal gave him a look.

“Have a look around your end, see if anyone bites, Moz. Leave the rest to me.” Neal quietened a second, but he spoke up before Mozzie had time to reply.

“Also, I need you to do me a favour. Can you take June out of town for a bit? I don’t want to worry her but I don’t want her around if this actually is a threat and they know where I am. If you have to tell her, then keep it simple. I don’t want her worrying.”

Mozzie looked disapproving and a little annoyed, but Neal knew he understood, that was written a little more subtly across his friend’s face, but Neal had been friends with him for more than a decade. He understood.

“I got it. She trusts your judgment, you know. If you tell her she’ll understand.”

“I – “ Neal stopped and leaned back in his chair, hands splayed on the table, his thoughts back downstairs not half an hour beforehand and all the kindness June had showed him. She didn’t need him bringing something down on her. No matter what it was.  
Not after the Thompson case.

“I don’t know how to tell her that me being here is dangerous to her. I just -”  
Mozzie looked grave and Neal knew somehow he didn’t have to go on.

“Do _you_ have any ideas who the mystery writer is?”

Neal paused.

“I was thinking Keller, but then again, I’m not so sure,” he said, glancing up at Mozzie and trying not to shake off the idea again.

“Why Keller?”

“Post? Russians. I don’t know; it was just a feeling.”

Mozzie looked wary for a moment.

“You think the Kandinsky’s might have something to do with it?” Mozzie suggested, leaning forward, the light glinting off the rings on his fingers. Neal stared at it for a second.

“It might,” he said finally, looking back up into Mozzie’s face. “It turned up afterwards. The card did say ‘one’. I told Peter that was the beginning of something. Maybe the heist was it.”

“Then maybe two means you should look out for another job. Maybe they’re trying to get your attention. Art crime was your specialty after all.”

“After nearly four years being government meat? I doubt it.”

“The four years are nearly up, mon frère. There could be new horizons on the horizon.”

Neal looked away.

“Maybe.”

“You decided what you’re going to do yet?”

“No.”

“The art is still there, you know. I have another buyer lined up if you’re ready.”

So that was why Mozzie had brought wine.

“We can’t, Moz. Not again so soon. If too much shows up then Peter will start getting suspicious again.”

“He’s known we’ve had it since day one. He hasn’t done anything.”

“Because we haven’t done anything. He hasn’t heard about the Picasso yet, and I don’t want him to. If we sell any more, he’ll know. Besides, he can’t prove anything yet and that’s Peter’s thing. He has to have proof. They knew I did a lot more but they could only prove those bonds the first time and if we start getting cocky then bad things will happen.”

“The option is there, that’s all I’m saying.”

“I now, Moz. I get it.”

Mozzie was quiet.

For all their plans, after everything that happened, the anklet was their source of contention. Mozzie had been willing enough to let him go when it had been him and Kate. Forever after. Because that had been a win, happily ever after had been the dream.

If Neal gave everything up because of a Fed – even if that same fed was Peter Burke, well, that was something Mozzie couldn’t handle. And Neal wasn’t so sure either. He had pushed Mozzie until the edge of forgiveness to hold onto the loot until his four years were up. Give them time to put it all off – but now, well, now he was four months out and there was nothing left but the countdown and the biggest choice he could ever make looming over his head.

He still wasn’t ready to choose yet.

He didn’t think he ever would be.

 

***

When Neal arrived the next morning, Peter was turning over his note in his hands as he had been that morning days earlier. It certainly made the approach easier as Neal jogged up the stairs and paused in the doorway.

Peter seemed to be off in a world of his own as Neal rested in the doorway for a second. Peter didn’t look up.

“You got any leads on that thing?” he asked and Peter finally glanced up at him. It took him a moment to answer, but he did, finally.

“No,” he said, with a shake of his head.

“Thoughts?” Neal asked, stepping inside.

“Nothing new.”

“Ah,” Neal said, walking over to his seat and sitting down.

“I might have something for you.”

He pulled out his own note from his inside pocket and slid it across the table.

“That arrived at June’s.”

Peter’s expression turned tight as he looked down at it. He gingerly picked it up.

“It was sent to your apartment?”

“Yeah. June said it was sent by courier. Like yours.”

“Like mine.”

Peter was quiet as he looked down at it.

“Number two,” he murmured, touching the paper.

“Yep,” Neal shrugged. Peter opened his drawer and pulled out his own note. Setting it down beside the second. He stared at them for a moment before he finally looked back up at Neal.

“Should we be worried?”

“I guess that depends what it’s counting towards,” Neal answered, leaning forward to look down at the two cards.

“Any ideas now?”

“Not about this.”

“About what then?”

“I may have had a tail the other day. I wasn’t sure so I didn’t say anything, but it could have been. They were good at looking inconspicuous.”

“Then I think we should bring in the big guns. Is Diana here yet?”

Neal glanced down at the bullpen.

“Not yet.”

“Well, send her up when she does get here. I’ll inform Jones when he swaps with Blake keeping surveillance.”

“You think these are connected to Luccson?”

“Or our missing mastermind.”

“It’s possible. We’re still missing how the theft and the forgery are connected. There’s definitely something going on there.”

“Well once we find Luccson, we’ll press on him for a form of contact and go from there.”

“The job’s only half done,” Neal sighed.

“Yep. We’ll pressure Luccson for anything he has and go after the paintings and the other players.”

“He won’t have the painting anymore, Peter. He’ll have passed the painting on by now. If it’s a contracted job then it’ll have been passed on the day of the theft. If it wasn’t it would have turned up on the black market somewhere.”

“If that’s the case, then he’ll at least be able to give us a little more insight into whoever orchestrated this whole thing. No matter which way I look at it, it doesn’t seem to make sense. They steal one, they forge another and swap it out, both by the same artist, but owned by different people. But they leave the third as it is.”

“None of the other paintings had anything wrong with them. It didn’t look like they were tampered with and it doesn’t look like any of them are top notch forgeries either.”

“So what does that say about the third Kandinsky?” Peter asked, solemnly.

“Or what does it say about the other two? _The Blue Rider_ I can understand, that’s a milestone piece, especially if you like Kandinsky. _Fugue_ , I’m a little hesitant about. ‘ _Santa Marguerite_ ’, that’s a work that only someone would want personally. It was painted in 1904; it’s early work for Kandinsky. Not many people know about it.”

“You think that’s why it wasn’t touched?”

“Could be,” Neal shrugged.

“Or it could be they already have it and don’t need to steal it. Maybe the mastermind is whoever owns _Santa Marguerite_?” Neal said with a shrug.

“Maybe. I’ll get Fenley to run a background check and see what comes up.”  
Neal nodded.

“I’m gonna go and grab a coffee. You want one?” he asked. Peter was frowning, staring down at the two notes still out on his desk.

“Yeah, thanks. Send Diana up for me will you?” he asked and Neal nodded. Glancing down in the bullpen where Diana was unpacking for the morning.

He wandered down to meet her.

***

“This about Neal, boss?” Diana asked, pausing in the doorway of Peter’s office. Peter shook his head slightly, leaning back in his seat as she closed the door behind her, watching as Neal slumped down in his chair and reached for his rubber band ball. She turned back to Peter. He was silent, waiting for her to step closer towards him before he continued.

“Not entirely,” he said, frowning. “On Tuesday morning, I received this. It was left at the front desk, by personal courier Monday night,” he said, pushing a small piece of white paper across the desk at her. It was Diana’s turn to frown as she picked it up.

“One?”

“Yeah. I had it run through forensics. Nothing. Just the note in a white envelope. The courier lead went nowhere.”

“What’s this got to do with Neal?” she asked, looking back up at him. Peter looked pensive. This at least answered a few of the questions she’d been stacking up since the investigation began. She’d been sure Peter had been keeping something back, and considering the way Neal had been acting all week, she was beginning to think it had something to do with him. If it was all about the letter then she could set her reservations aside.

Naturally it wasn’t that easy.

“Neal received this, last night,” Peter said, pushing the second piece of paper across the desk.

Two.

Oh.

“You think this is a threat?”

“I do now.”

“Is Neal worried?” she asked, staring at Peter.

“He doesn’t seem to be. I think something else is going on there. I can’t be sure. Neal thinks he had a tail yesterday.”

“What about you?”

“I haven’t noticed. But I want a security detail checking up on Elizabeth just in case. Nothing else has been made of it, but if it is leading up to something, I want her safe. Let me know the moment another one of these arrives. Whether it’s for you or Jones or anyone else. I’ll be telling Clinton the same thing. I don’t know what it’s about yet, but we need to be careful about this.”

“You got it, boss,” she said, looking between the two cards. One and two. Insignificant numbers, but considering the ambiguity of the job they were working and sent in like they were - one and two became threats. They became dangerous.

“Anything else, boss?” she asked, setting the cards down. Peter’s expression hadn’t wavered past concerned.

“Yeah, tell Fenley to run a background check on the owner of the third Kandinsky, ‘ _Santa Marguerite_ ’, check for any changes in finances, lately. Upgrades to security, home improvements. Things like that. And I want you to cross check any of the others set to show up to that show this weekend for the same thing. We’re thinking the two stolen works could be making up part of a set. A set that’s already partially constructed.”

“You think they only wanted those two because they already have others.”

“Some people go to extreme lengths for interior design. Let’s see whether theft is one of them.”

“Gotcha boss,” she said, hurrying back down to her desk, but not before she cast a cursory glance back up at Peter. His expression hadn’t changed, but if it had, it had scaled a few shades darker. Something else was afoot and she couldn’t help all the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. There was more to this case than met the eye, and if those notes were in any way connected, then things were about to get nasty.

***

Peter left the office about eleven to join Jones in the van outside Luccson’s Queens studio apartment. The place was on the second floor along a busy street and in the fourteen hours they’d been surveilling the place, no one had come in or out. Jones had taken over from Blake about eight, and was just starting to fidget when Peter let himself inside.

“Jones,” he greeted and the younger agent spun on his chair.

“Anything?” he asked.

“Not a damn thing,” Jones replied.

“Time for a coffee break?” he asked, eyeing the door. Peter smiled.

“Neal’s gone to get you one.”

“You sent Neal on a coffee run?” Jones sounded amused.

“He offered. It’s the van, he hates it,” Peter shrugged, sitting himself down.

“Always the van,” Jones snickered, glancing back at the screens.

“Hope you told him to bring snacks while he’s out.”

“We can send him a message. I wanted to talk to you about something,” Peter said. Jones’ smile disappeared and he sat up straight.

“This something about Caffrey? That why you sent him for coffee?” Peter sat back. Sometimes he forgot Jones was as intuitive as he was, which he knew wasn’t fair on the man at all. Clinton Jones was a lot of things, and loyal was at the top of the list, smart, just one step down. Peter knew he didn’t give him anywhere near enough credit.

“Yes and no,” Peter said, reaching in his pocket for the notes.

Jones eyed them warily as Peter handed them over.

“I received the first one on Tuesday. Neal got his last night. We’re not sure what it’s about, whether it’s this case or something we don’t know about yet, but I just wanted to warn you first. I need you to let me know if you get anything like this at all.”

“You told Diana?”

“I showed her this morning. There’s nothing to go on. They’re delivered by courier; they just show up on the delivery roster with no existing paperwork. No prints, nothing forensics could find at all. Just the notes.”

“You think this has something to do with why Caffrey’s been off the last week?”

Peter frowned. So he definitely hadn’t been the only one to notice Neal being off.

“No. Maybe. I don’t know. Leave Neal to me. The notes, however, are now a team effort.”

Jones nodded and fell silent. Peter watched the man’s face, but after a full tour in the Navy, Clinton Jones knew how to pull a neutral expression. Deception tutorials with Neal didn’t help either, once Jones had started taking over for Neal with the undercover assignments in the last few months.

Peter didn’t have time to open his mouth and ask about the intel before there was the undeniable shuffling as Neal climbed inside the van, juggling coffee and bags of pastries.

“No message required,” Neal smiled as he handed over Jones’ bag of pastries like he’d been listening in and Peter couldn’t help but laugh a little at Jones’ pleased expression. He should have known after three and a half years of surveillance that Caffrey knew to always bring food back when he went for coffee, especially for Jones. The man had a sweet tooth.

“I never doubted you,” Jones said as Neal handed Peter his coffee and set himself down on the third chair, pulling a headset over.

“Anything show up?”

“No one’s gone in or out, whole time I’ve been here,” Jones said ruefully, already picking at a danish Neal had brought back.

“Delightful,” Neal quipped and Peter rolled his eyes at him before looking back to the screens, settling back in his chair for a long day.

And it was.

The only highlight was Diana calling around eleven thirty with a proposal that had Peter berating himself for overlooking.

Mandy had Luccson’s contact details, and while they were keeping tabs on the so-far quiet cell phone, that didn’t stop the girl from calling to set up a meet, luring Luccson back out into the open.

Luccson didn’t answer the phone, but Diana had the girl leave a message and some fifteen minutes later, that Neal counted out with pensive tapping, driving Peter steadily insane – there was an answering text message with a time. 1pm.

Easy.

It left them forty minutes to stake out the building and get into position before Luccson’s arrest.

But even the best laid plans can go wrong, and Peter knew this certainly wasn’t the best laid plan. It was simple, straightforward and from their discussion it didn’t appear like very much could go wrong.

The unfortunate thing about stings like that though, was that Fate seemed to take it up as a challenge.

 

***

Diana had more than enough time to get down to the meeting point at Luccson’s place, leading a team to stake out any potential back exits and leaving Peter, Neal and Jones to surreptitiously stake out the front.

If there was one thing Neal approved about the hacker’s manners, it was the fact he showed up on time at the very least. One thing that did surprise him, however, was his ability to run. When he’d stared at the man’s photograph in his file, the man wasn’t overweight, he looked normal, average, a little dimwitted; but that had been all in his expression. He’d looked like a sloth, but Neal had no reservations the man actually moved like one.

In reality, the man was built like a tonne of bricks. He was big, but bulky – mostly muscle and he was _tall_.

Of course, that was no help at all to poor Jones, who braced himself when they’d tried to corner the man on the ground floor of his building. But that didn’t stop the agent going sprawling as he’d barreled into him. Neal heard Jones shout and go flying backwards and had barely enough time to get out of the way before Luccson went running up the damn _stairs_.

“Peter, he’s got a gun!” Jones shouted, charging to his feet and up the stairs after Luccson. Neal started after him, barely four stairs up before Peter grabbed him by the shoulder and stopped him.

“Stay here,” Peter pressed and Neal was about to argue before Peter glared at him and started after Jones. Neal could hear both men’s shoes on the concrete as they climbed, the squeak and groan of shoes and body weight and the shouts of Peter and Jones as they gave chase. The bottom floor of the building was deserted; Diana was keeping guard at the back exit, leaving Neal to the front. Not that there was much to the front at all. There were two closets either side of the large staircase and everything else was available via the back entrance. The front was little more than affable grandiose. It was all about upstairs and they hadn’t really expected Luccson to run. Especially not once he was inside the damn building. The man was a hacker, but that didn’t mean he was an idiot, and only an idiot would go running upwards inside a building when approached by the Feds when it was clear they had the place staked out.

Neal shook his head and took one last glance out onto the street and started up the stairs after them. Peter had coddled him for months. The pair of them knew that he was no longer pressured into every single undercover op but he needn’t need the second-guessing. He was fine. He’d proved that time and again for six months and putting him on watch was coddling. Fenley was in the van out the front of the building anyway. It was more likely he’d be needed further up to corner Luccson than simply barricading the front doors.

He could hear Peter and Jones chasing Luccson up to the second floor as he came up the stairs. The first floor branched off down two separate hallways; on one side the wall conjoined with another building, and on the other side there was a modest sized window. Large enough for even someone like Luccson to get through, and from there, it was a fair jump to the ground, but no doubt one modest enough for a desperate man on the run from the FBI. Neal had made crazier decisions than that.

His curiosity piqued, Neal started down the corridor towards the window when there was a shot fired upstairs and a muffled shout. Neal turned abruptly in time to see Benny Luccson come careening down the stairwell, almost slipping on his feet. He stumbled and pushed himself upright, his face contorted into a frantic sort of desperation and in his hand was a gun, that upon seeing Neal between him and what was no doubt the man’s well aimed escape route, he raised it straight on. His finger on the trigger, eyeline bearing straight at Neal.

On instinct, Neal raised his arms above his head and stared down the muzzle of the gun and, without consent, his brain pushed all common sense aside and started to panic. He could feel his heart speed up. He watched the sweat beading the other man’s brow, above his lip. The desperation in the man’s eyes, the gleam that was suddenly a little unhinged. The finger resting just on the trigger, and the eager sort of twitch it was suddenly making. Neal felt ice cold dread run through him and without any sort of rational thinking at all, Neal did the only thing he could do, trapped between a desperate man with a gun and his only way out; on the other end of a long straight corridor.

Neal ran.

And before his brain could catch up with the irrational decision and tell him off, there was the sound of the gun’s rapport and Neal’s whole body flinched and he went down.

***

Nothing had seemed to go right from the moment Diana radioed in from the back door that she was in position. Luccson had arrived on time, but the moment he’d looked both ways and entered the front entrance of the building, everything had gone to hell. Jones and Neal had filed in after him. Peter had been mere steps behind, reaching in his jacket for his badge before Neal suddenly leapt aside and Peter was half a step away from being barreled into by Jones, who barely managed to stay on his feet, but once he had his balance back, went running off.

Peter heard Jones call out to him as he watched Luccson take off up the stairs, Jones chasing after him, Neal a few steps behind.

Peter reached out and grabbed Neal, twisting the younger man back and stopping him before he could get any further out of reach. The kid spun around, his eyes wide and piqued with the briefest flare of annoyance.

“Stay here,” Peter heard himself order before he took off after Jones, taking the stairs two at a time. As he reached the first landing, Jones was half way up the second, his gun out in front.

Peter started after him. Jones was halfway across the room as Peter made it to the top.

Stopping, he braced himself, holding his gun in both hands and carefully cleared the corridor before making his way over to the open door and followed Jones inside the top floor studio. The room was nothing like what Peter had imagined. He’d thought of a room full of wiring and monitors, instead it was practically abandoned, rife with boxes and draped material. It smelt like mortar dust and mildew.

“He’s armed, Peter,” Jones called from a few feet away, his gun out as he turned slowly, eyeing the mess and searching for some sign of Luccson.

“He ran in here and pulled the door shut behind him; by the time I got in here he was gone.” Jones spoke slowly, eyeballing the room, Peter followed, keeping an eye out for the smallest change, the smallest hint of disturbance.

“He was crafty, I can give him that much,” Jones was saying as Peter heard it, a creak of shoes on concrete behind him and he spun, just in time to see Luccson take a quick, badly aimed shot their way before tearing it across the room and back down the stairs again.

“Jones! Down the stairs!” Peter shouted, giving chase.

“There must have been a back door!” Jones shouted, just behind him as Peter ran out the door and down to the stairs. Luccson was taking them two at a time and Peter was at the top as he watched the man trip over his own feet at the bottom and go scattering into the hallway, where instead of trying to run yet again, the man scrambled to his feet and raised his gun upright.

Except he wasn’t aiming at Peter.

Peter felt his heart pounding in his chest as he reached far enough down to see Neal as the CI turned his back and ran. Peter watched in horror as Luccson took a shot. The report of it echoing back up to Peter and stopping him halfway down the stairs. He watched in horror as just up the hall Neal twisted and cringed, tripping over his feet and going down. Peter felt his heart beating in his throat as he watched, wide eyed and useless as his partner fell.

“Luccson!” Peter shouted, bracing himself, raising his gun.

“Put the gun down!” Jones shouted behind him, but Luccson was turning and his gun was still outright, his finger on the trigger. There was a manic gleam in his eyes that Peter understood and he knew what Luccson was planning on doing before the man could finish turning, or his trigger finger finish clenching and take another shot.

Instead, Peter took his chance and pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession.  
He watched in detached slow motion as Benjamin Luccson collapsed.

But the moment the man stopped falling his attention wasn’t on Luccson; it was on the heavily breathing Neal, on his back, his knees tangled under him, staring wide eyed at the body of the man in front of him.

Peter felt his own panic start to dissipate as he took in the sight before him. Neal was alive. He was fine.

Peter forced himself to take a deep breath and accept the sight in front of him. It took far longer than he was willing to admit.

The sight in front of him was too familiar; it was a far too similar to the Thompson case. Their con was dead and Neal was sprawled out against the wall. The upside to it this time was the vibrant alarm Peter could see in Neal’s eyes as he heaved, breathing hard and staring up at Peter. Peter forced himself to take in another deep breath as he holstered his gun, still trying to dispel the sheer panic that had risen up like bile in his throat when he’d seen Neal go down.

But this time there was no blood. There was no sagging head resting on his chest, no limp hand facing palm up covered in blood, the wall streaked red where the kid had slid down it, barricading the door between where little Gerry Halborough had escaped and where Eric Thompson had been standing with a gun. Or at least he had been until Jones had put two bullets in his chest and he’d gone down in a mess of sprawled limbs.

This time was much better.

“Come on,” he said, coming down the last of the stairs, stepping around Luccson and going over to Neal. He held out a hand for Neal to grasp, helping to pull him to his feet. Neal was staring at Luccson, his face white, still gasping for breath.

“Thanks,” Neal murmured, breaking his staring competition with Luccson to glance up at Peter. Peter laid a hand on Neal’s shoulder, hoping to calm the kid down. And himself.

“No problem,” he said back, just as quietly as Neal. Jones was holstering his own gun and talking quietly on his radio to Diana.

“There goes our chance to get any more on the mastermind behind this thing,” Neal said, still warily eyeing Luccson’s body. Peter didn’t care. He couldn’t force himself to care. Not right then, dammit.

“There may be evidence here we can find. It may not be a dead end yet.”

If Neal heard the pun or not, he didn’t let it show; he ran a hand through his hair and as Peter glanced at him, he was a little shocked to feel the young man shaking under his touch as he reached out to guide Neal out past the body and back to the car. Or at least somewhere to sit down. He pushed Neal down onto the steps heading down to the ground floor, sitting him out of sight of the body just as Diana brought up the other agents who had been with her at the back entrance and started coordinating the scene. Peter left them to it, choosing to stay with Neal on the stairs, watching as Neal took a deep breath and tried to relax. It didn’t work; he still looked tightly wound and nervous. He wasn’t shaking so much in the short walk, but he couldn’t sit still and his eyes were wide and Peter was tempted to almost call it terrified. Except Neal didn’t really get terrified, he got rattled, and this was clearly a severe case. But Neal had made sure not to give himself away over the years. Not the real earth shattering emotions, no, those he kept forcibly bottled. This felt like a rare glimpse of them, or as close as anyone got. Peter hadn’t seen anything quite like this since… well. Well, since.

But then, no other case had been this close to replicating that fateful day. In the last six months Neal hadn’t been cornered in a corridor by a psycho with a gun aiming to kill him with no way out.

Neal was doing well not to completely fall apart, Peter thought. Which he almost had due right to do. Peter laid his hand on Neal’s shoulder again.

“You alright, Neal?” he asked softly, trying to meet Neal’s eye. Neal’s gaze wandered, and it took a moment before he even glanced at Peter, but when he did, he didn’t look away.

“I’m fine, Peter,” he said, trying to smile. It didn’t work and they both knew it. But all the same, Peter nodded and let go of his friend. Neal sighed and glanced back up the hallway.

“What do we do now?” he asked and it was Peter’s turn to sigh, setting his hands on his hips and following his consultant’s gaze. Jones was standing with Diana, who was securing the scene. Peter tried to remind himself to thank her.

“We go back to the office and go over what we can find here. See if Mandy Brenner can give us anything else. We go from there.”

Neal nodded and was quiet.

“You alright to sit here while I oversee this?” he asked, turning to look back at Neal. Neal nodded, mutely. When Peter kept his gaze, Neal was the first to glance away, his mouth twisting in a small frown. He braced himself against the steps before he looked up at Peter and Peter pretended to let the telling movement slip him by.

“I’ll be alright, Peter,” he said softly.

“You’ll stay here?” Peter pressed and this time Neal sighed, exasperated.

“Right here,” he said, his voice lilting in common Caffrey style.

“Good,” Peter said, knowing he was patronizing, but not really caring. He didn’t care how he sounded, not when he didn’t want Neal completely out of his sight and not when it looked like if the kid tried to stand up his knees would go out from under him. A part of him knew he was underestimating Neal’s ability to cope, but another part of him was well prepared to coddle and look away in equal measures as long as it meant that Neal could show up tomorrow or the day after and do his job without having to hide his hands trembling.

Peter was sick of watching his partner pretend he was okay because he thought he had to.  
“I’ll be back. Right here, don’t move.”

He could feel Neal’s eyes on his back as he wandered back up to where Diana was overseeing the agents securing their scene awaiting forensics.

“How is he?” she asked softly as Peter walked over. Peter watched as her eyes flickered down to Neal who was still on the steps.

“Shaky. He should be alright.”

“Jones says it was another close one,” she said, looking back to where the agents were moving around the body.

“Yeah, it was,” Peter agreed. Another horrible moment of potential disaster. He didn’t know what he was going to do if Neal decided to take up the offer he and Hughes had been discussing on offering the ex-con once his parole ended. Peter suddenly didn’t know if he was even willing to offer it to him. Not when it meant that Neal could potentially keep going undercover for the Bureau. While at that moment it would mean Neal would stick around, be stuck working with Peter for years to come – if it meant that he would one day find himself in one of these situations but running just a minute too late and find Neal on the ground in front of him shot to hell, not some felon Peter didn’t know the name of a week ago. If keeping Neal working with him meant one day burying his best friend, Peter knew he’d much rather Neal take off with a trail of high end felonies as a goodbye.

“You okay?” Diana asked, then and Peter knew he’d let his expression tell too much.

“Yeah. You alright to finish up here?” he asked, glancing at Diana. She nodded.

“Yeah. It shouldn’t take long. The ME should be here in about fifteen minutes anyway. Once the body’s been collected I’ll be right behind you.”

“Good. I’ll inform Hughes what’s going on. I have to lodge my weapon now anyway. Then I’m going to drop Caffrey back home.”

“You should go home yourself, Boss. I’ve got this,” Diana said and Peter nodded. He could trust her to wrap this up properly.

“Besides, there’s nothing more we can do on the case until forensics go through what’s up here.”

“Yeah. Right. Ok, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. Diana nodded.

“Bright and early, boss,” she called after him as Peter wandered back over to Neal, where Jones was standing in front of him. Neal hadn’t moved, and Peter couldn’t help but smile a little when he neared the two of them.

They stopped talking as he stopped in front of them.

“I’m heading back to the office. Diana’s going to wrap up the scene and Fenley can take the van back in.”

Neal nodded and Jones looked between the conman and Peter, his hands on his hips.

“Mind if I nick I ride, Peter? Neal’s gonna come back to mine tonight. We can pick up my car at the bureau.”

Peter started and looked between Jones in Neal in mock jest. Jones seemed to read him but Neal was still looking a bit dazed.

“Planning a night without me?”

“Mozzie’s in Chicago,” Neal said quietly and Peter shut up. “He took June to see Cindy.”

“Neal’s taking me up on a raincheck,” Jones shrugged. Peter didn’t press. Considering how pale Neal still looked, he didn’t think it was a good idea Neal was alone either. He’d have to thank Jones later.

“I don’t know about you, Peter, but I need a drink,” Neal said, pushing himself to his feet. He didn’t groan, but his movements were slow and stiff and it reminded Peter of an old man.

He nodded.

“Right, well, the sooner we get back the sooner you pair can head off and the sooner I can get home to Elizabeth.”

Neal nodded and casually glanced back up the hallway.

“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he said to no one in particular and they watched him walk down the stairs.

“Keep an eye on him tonight,” Peter murmured to Jones. Jones turned to look at Peter.

“One step ahead of you, Peter,” he said, wearing a small smile.

Peter watched as Jones hurried after Neal until the agent was at the bottom of the stairs before he cast one last look at Diana, who was talking with a pair of agents just arrived on scene. The call must have been put through quickly, but that was Diana. She had it all handled. Peter sighed and jogged after Jones.

When he got to the car, Neal was already slumped in the backseat and Jones was leaning against the passenger door talking to Neal through the window. They grew quiet again as Peter neared and Jones just glanced back down at Neal and then slid into the front seat.

The whole car was quiet as Peter turned on the engine and backed the car out into traffic. There wasn’t much to say, certainly nothing that Peter was willing to broach in the car. Elizabeth had warned him of that before, after Neal had returned to work and Peter had been sure Neal still wasn’t ready. Because Neal certainly wasn’t one to share. He hadn’t then, and Peter had been scolded more than once for cornering Neal in the car and asking the big questions, like ‘are you okay? Are you sure? Why do you think you have to be okay with what happened?’

Since then, he’d tried to give Neal space, but given the circumstances…

Peter stopped himself and gripped the steering wheel, eyeing his consultant and then glancing at Jones, who had one arm braced against the window as he watched New York go by.

Perhaps Jones had the better tact; perhaps coaxing it out of Neal was better than just asking. Peter shook his head, keeping the gesture mostly to himself. Of course coaxing it out was the better option. Neal reveled under pressure, but he also rebelled. He only ever revealed things on his own terms, and perhaps over quiet drinks where he wasn’t _expected_ to share anything was certainly better than blunt questions.

Peter pulled up at a red light and couldn’t help but glance at Neal in the mirror. Neal’s face was blank as he stared out the window; his head canted back and turned to the side. He wasn’t as pale anymore, which was an upside. In all the cases they’d worked in the last six months, there had been a distinctive lack of Neal having guns shoved in his face. Peter had made sure of it and he was distinctly proud of the achievement. Jones had gone undercover more often, which he seemed to relish. They still maintained their closure rate, Neal wasn’t threatened as often and they all went home safe.

Peter had forced himself to be more rational about the cases and undercover operations since the Thompson case; it was the case that every other was measured against. The odd thing about it had always been that it had been a case that they hadn’t needed anyone undercover at all. But it had been the case where Neal had a gun shoved in his face and he hadn’t been lucky enough to miss it. From then on, caution was Peter’s utmost concern. His people safe. Today had been lucky. He’d been preoccupied with other things early in the day and hadn’t thought long enough on what Luccson might be capable of. The hacker had gone from computers to breaking and entering and grand theft larceny in a short time frame, coupled with the fact there was an outside benefactor no one seemed to know anything about. And then there were the notes, that could have everything to do with the case, or nothing at all and Peter didn’t know which was which and what was important. All he knew was that they unnerved him.

The red light swapped to green and Peter turned his gaze back to the road as he pumped the gas, focused in that moment on the road in front of him long enough to miss the black SUV speeding through the red light to his right until, with a grinding shriek of metal it connected with the rear of the Taurus. Peter’s head slammed sideways as the SUV drove forward and everything was wiped from his brain except the screaming of metal and the shouts of Neal and Jones and the momentum of the Taurus, forced sideways into the intersection by the SUV. It seemed to take an age before everything went still, and when it did, it was like nothing was moving at all.

Not even to breathe.


	2. Part two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing recognizable belong to me. It belongs to Jeff Eastin.
> 
> I do hope you enjoy my story. :)
> 
> If you have any questions I managed to avoid answering please ask them. Any comments can only help me with my writing, so please drop me a line. I would ever be so grateful.
> 
> Captain  
> xxx

*** PART TWO***

 

The A&E at Lenox Hill was like a war zone even before Peter had reached a bed to be examined. There had been beeping and stretches of muted nothing tempered by the rise of fall of voices and the pounding of shoes on lino that was loud enough to send the thrumming pulse in his head into overdrive and his own mounting frustration through the roof.

Neal was gone.

Peter had a concussion, and a nasty one at that; Jones had three cracked ribs, heavy bruising and a fractured ulna, radius and collarbone and from what the pair of them could piece together from their own mitigated memories Neal had a gun shoved in his face and told to get out of the car.

It had been simple, it had been effective and it left them all clueless as to why it even happened.

And that was by far worse than the steady pounding in his head and the vacant ache through the rest of him lulled out by painkillers and the quiet calm of their private room. They knew nothing, and Peter wasn’t allowed within ten feet of doing anything to change that until he was discharged from the hospital and spent 24 hours at home.

And he was the lucky one. Jones was going to be laid up for at least a week before they even thought about releasing him, which left Diana on her own to face the onslaught of Neal’s abduction and the massacre their case had become.

Neal Caffrey, at that point, was considered a kidnapped asset to the Bureau. But there was a significant chance - some four months three days shy of the end of his parole - that that particular status could change.

And there was nothing Peter could do about it. Not yet.

Not when he was stuck in a hospital bed with his wife sitting by his side trying not to reach out and hold his hand for reassurance again. For all Elizabeth’s strength, things like this shook the foundations and he was happy to reassure her. He was fine, he was being kept for observation and the scratches on his hands and face would disappear in no time at all. His aching muscles would ease over the next few days and without any time at all he’d bear no evidence anything had even happened.

That was reassurance for Elizabeth. Peter wanted the reassurance Neal Caffrey was still alive. Not even Mozzie could give it to him.

And he made sure Mozzie didn’t know any more than he did. Or any less.

But as sure and as threatening and frustrated as he could be in a hospital gown with his wife in the doorway of his room staring him down every time he made a move to stand up, there was only so much he could do. Only so much he could be, and everything he was so used to doing, Hughes had banned him from for 24 hours.

The first 24 hours were critical and there was nothing Peter could do except two phone calls and a three-minute conversation between El and the paranoid little man Neal trusted indefinitely.

“Tell me you’ve found something,” Peter all but begged the small man, clutching the phone to his ear with a desperation that felt alien to him. If three years ago someone had told him that the level of trust he’d gain between Neal’s behind the scenes genius and himself, he would have laughed them into Medicare fraud.

 _“No can do, Suit,_ ” Mozzie said, sounding anxious. “ _Give me a few hours and let me get back to you.”_

And there was nothing Peter could do but let Mozzie hang up on him. There was nothing Peter could do to stop the paranoid conman from doing whatever it was that he did, breaking as many laws in the process as he could find. But there was also nothing that Peter could do to help and the whole situation had his stomach in knots.

Peter wrangled his phone off El again half an hour later with a little help from a medicated Jones, who was just as concerned – if not quite as vocal – about finding out what the hell had happened as Peter was. But Diana had nothing; she had the bullpen on high alert and there was very little coming through. They were still working the scene of the crash. But apparently Kimberly Rice had a task force of her own being set up downstairs and she’d call if they found anything. But two hours later it was only Mozzie’s two minute phone call from an untraceable number that rang out and it was only to tell him he had nothing.

Stone cold nothing.

Peter knew in those moments, as his own concern mounted, that he should have stepped as far back from the case as he could. That was, after all, what Hughes had been trying to do by banning him; but all it took was a glimpse of his wife, sitting at his right with a stony look of calm on her face like she knew exactly what he was thinking, and she trusted him to fix it. He knew in that moment that regardless of whether Hughes even let him back into the office, there was no damn chance he was going to sit around staring at cold cases while Neal Caffrey was still missing.

No chance in hell.

***

When Mozzie had given in to Neal’s whimsical sense of caution and taken June out of New York and deposited her safely out of harms way right in the middle of Chicago, he’d tossed up more than once whether Neal was finally starting to crack.

He’d known his friend was under pressure more than ever, but it did little to console his guilt when he and June were interrupted at afternoon tea by a frantic call from one Elizabeth Burke.

Neal was missing.

Or, rather, Neal had been _taken __. Forcibly snatched. In that moment, all of Mozzie’s paranoia sang in chorus, but as he looked up across the table at June and saw her anxious expression the singing ceased. Neal was _gone_. _

And he’d known something was wrong, and the bastard had sent both of them out of harm’s way.

He’d used June to get Mozzie out of town.

For a brief moment, Mozzie was pissed, but then it hit him once again.

Neal was gone. Missing. Taken.

“I need to go,” he said, trying not to sound terse as he looked back at June.

The older woman looked pale. Mozzie didn’t know how much she’d overheard, but either way, he didn’t want her going back to New York. Not when Neal had conned him of all people to ensure she was safely out of the way.

“Is he alright?” June prompted and for a moment, Mozzie floundered.

“He will be,” he said, hoping she’d settle for that and leave it be.

Mozzie didn’t know what concerned him more, that Neal had conned him or that June let him lie to her.

He knew she’d find out later. Whether she forced him to tell her or whether she called Elizabeth Burke herself, either way, it wouldn’t lie still.

But that didn’t stop Mozzie from kissing her on the cheek and running off back to New York and it didn’t stop June from trying to stop him, either.

Mozzie had lived with a sense of foreboding long enough that he tried to take it with a pinch of salt as often as he could. Unless he had reason to let himself be irrational and give in. Then he would. And he often did.

He liked the way different people reacted differently to something that made them uncomfortable. How they reacted to someone behaving in a way that made them uncomfortable. It was a fantastic way of discerning how much he could get away with around them.

Neal was usually unreservedly giving when it came to anything that came out of Mozzie’s mouth. No matter what it was, he always entertained what Mozzie had said, regardless of whether or not he agreed with it.

But that didn’t mean he’d give in to it. No, all it meant was that he’d listen and he’d say something, possibly pretend to agree and then be completely stupid anyway.

Of all the grifters Mozzie had met over the years, no one had ever been quite as passionately stupid as Neal. Or quite as often. It was one of the reasons it had made Neal so great, he gave in to the stupid ideas, and matched with the kid’s irrefutable skills and damn brilliant luck, it usually came good more times than it didn’t. It had, over the years, lead them into several instances of no return that had shook even their most structured of foundations. But they’d come good.

That was the main thing.

This time, Mozzie wasn’t so sure.

He’d known Neal over a decade and he thought he’d seen everything that could possibly happen to him. Neal had been arrested. He’d fallen in love. He’d fallen out of love. He’d been in and out of prison, more often than Mozzie wanted to keep count any more. He’d been framed and exonerated. He’d befriended a fed, he worked for the government. He’d been shot and saved and hung out to dry. He’d done so damn much and come through it all.

He’d even gone missing before. Wilkes had gone in for payback, but Neal had come through even that.

That fantastical luck of his.

But this time, this time Mozzie’s foreboding sense of caution had gone off the rails and for the first time in his life, he was suddenly terrifyingly certain that this may be the first time Neal might not make it out.

It was a terrifying thought that had kept him awake and twitching the entire flight home. He’d never been so anxious in his life and the sources had never been so quiet.  
Or, rather, quiet in all the wrong ways.

The underground was awash with people whispering. All of it about Neal.  
About the FBI’s conman getting nabbed so publically, so violently and the inescapable whispers that he’d had it coming for years now.

It had made Mozzie’s skin crawl.

But there was nothing he could do but keep his ear to the ground and pray.  
The Suit was adamant, determined and frustrated on his end. Mozzie could understand the anxiety about being able to do nothing. He wasn’t chained to a hospital bed or under the glare of Mrs Suit; he was doing his hardest to find something, and he was still getting nowhere.

But the worst thing was, it didn’t even have anything to do with Keller and no one else seemed to know anyone who would want to send both Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey little white cards with numbers on them.

Not that Mozzie could pretend even to himself that this had anything to do with Keller anymore. When Neal had mentioned it Keller had been a reasonable bet. It made sense. Keller and Neal couldn’t sit still, always prodding at each other until the other one struck out and Keller had struck out more than his fair share in the last few years. While Neal had been certain it wasn’t Keller sending the notes, Mozzie hadn’t been so sure.

Now he was.

After what had happened to Neal, he knew for certain.

Keller wasn’t an exhibitionist. Well, he was. But not in the way that meant taking Neal the way they had. Keller was the type to leave threats. To force Neal’s hand, because he knew that would work. If Keller had wanted Neal, all he need have said was ‘you for her’ and pointed at June and Neal would have disappeared in an instant.

Especially when he would have done the exact same thing.

But this just wasn’t Keller’s style. This felt like a message. The only thing was, Mozzie still wasn’t sure who the message was for quite yet.

But that seemed like the key. If he knew who it was for, then he’d have an angle to play at. To look at. To press until it gave. If it was for Peter they had an angle to play with. Neal was just leverage. If the message was for Neal, well, there was nothing to do except find him, and fast, because there would be no other way to get him back in one piece. Let alone alive.

He just had to figure it out. Find the angle and apply pressure until it buckled and gave him everything he wanted.

And he would press until they gave everything they had.

He’d give everything he had, if it meant getting Neal back.  
He wasn’t going to lose him this close to the end of his parole. This close to freedom.

 

***

Neal was gone.

Peter’s memory was patchy, coming in stops and starts. Morse code in the screech of metal and the shatter of glass, the echoing shouts from Jones and Neal. The groan of tyres and the painful resonating silence that followed right up until there was the sound of the car door behind Jones being forced open and a short sharp barking voice that melted all together and made no sense to Peter, but seemed to make a lot of sense to Jones who started shouting and twisting in his seat, and most of all to Neal, who painfully pried himself out of the car.

But not before glancing at Peter.

Peter couldn’t remember if he saw the car before it careened into them, but he remembered the look on Neal’s face as he was pulled the last of the way out of the broken Taurus and disappeared.

The scene melted into darkness and Peter blinked himself awake.

The hospital was still awash with quiet noise and far away lights that were still close enough to illuminate the open doorway. The bed creaked as Peter awkwardly tried to turn over and winced as his shoulder protested. He could hear the rush of cars outside and the quiet snore of Jones’ heavily medicated sleep.

But all he could think about was the sounds still reverberating in his head, the sound of the car door being pried open, Jones’ muted shouting and then that last searing look as Neal had looked at Peter as he was dragged away.

How had he forgotten that look?

Peter sighed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His whole body ached and a part of him relished the feeling, knowing what he had been through and how much he could have lost.

But at the same time it was a constant reminder of what was missing.

They were all here for one reason – someone had wanted Neal.

And it made no sense.

The gallery job had nothing to do with Neal. The forgery itself had been good, Neal had said so – it was the aging that had made it easy to pick. But they’d solved that. It was the reason behind one forgery and one theft that still eluded them.

But that had nothing to do with the letters. Or had it?

Not that the letters made much sense either. They made even less sense than taking Neal for his skills. If that had been the reason, causing a car accident wasn’t really the best cause of action if they wanted to make him work afterwards.

At least with the letters there was already a sense of unease about them. It had been keeping Peter awake all week. But it was confusing at best. There had been two letters, one and two respectively. If they had been marks then surely his would be first.  
He was number one.

But then, Neal had been followed. Peter hadn’t noticed a tail, and he’d kept a weather eye out ever since Neal had mentioned his. It made no sense that the threats would count up, but then count down again. Especially if it was just him and Neal.

There wasn’t enough that they’d done that could lead to something like this. Not that he could think of. This was personal, and he still couldn’t figure out whether it was personal for him or Neal.

Nothing seemed straightforward.

And it was driving him nuts.

And hurting his people.

And there was nothing he could do but lay up and wait it out until he was allowed to do something, either. That was worse. There was nothing he could do until the day after tomorrow.

Nothing authorized at least. Diana had come around after she’d finished up at the office to give them a run down of what she’d found. But there was a massive difference between being the one in charge, the one leading the investigation, knowing everything when it was found out, as it was found out, instead of being laid up and getting a run down over things you couldn’t control that heavily affected people you cared about.

He’d promised both Reese and Elizabeth that he would sit back for 24 hours after his release, but then he was back on the case and he was going to figure this all out if it was the last case he worked.

 

***

Mozzie had contacts. He knew Rusty, who knew Kelko, who knew Marco in Queens who swore that some bloke in aviators had come around asking for hired muscle a week and a half ago and after a tense forty five minutes, it ended up being a completely useless lead.

Which was something new.

Usually his contacts paid up. Usually someone somewhere was willing to talk, for a fifty here, a Franklin there or God forbid the promise of a favor somewhere else. Over the years Mozzie had built up a collection of well to do’s, people of illicit nature with a soft spot for the right sort of question.

This time he couldn’t seem to ask the right question because no one was paying up. No one had word on why a bunch of heavyset thugs would drive through an intersection, take out two feds and kidnap Neal Caffrey. No one was talking.

There were plenty of whispers, and none of them favorable. A lot of them made Mozzie want to smash something which wasn’t an urge he had felt very often in his life and one he didn’t like in the slightest. What he didn’t like more, was his best friend missing and hurt and the fact no one was talking about it except to keep the story going and make their own opinions known without actually having to face up to it.

Because while the underbelly could be cold, they were also well versed in this type of thing. Neal had been taken. Kidnapped. Abducted. And unless Neal was a magician, there was little chance he was coming back, regardless of what the feds did.

When that sort of effort was made, the victim wasn’t found unless it was meant to be that way and the knowledge was climbing up and down Mozzie’s spine like a spider or the hand of God.

And it wasn’t like Neal lacked the skills to escape. He knew how to take care of himself; he was smart. He was the best pick pocket this side of the equator. He had nimble fingers and a light touch. He could pick next to anything and he could do it all talking nine to the dozen and charming everything in a three foot radius. Mozzie had seen Neal do some amazing things over the years. Some stupid boneheaded things that seemed to work out, too; but as the day dawned, some fourteen hours after his best friend was dragged out of Peter Burke’s smashed car, Mozzie’s hope was starting to dwindle, and it was that fact that terrified him. In all the years that Mozzie had known Neal, he’d never once given up on him, thought that the kid wouldn’t come good – and that was after four years in Supermax. That was after his boneheaded escape going after Kate. That was after his deal with the feds and his strangely beneficial relationship with the Suit.

After everything, Mozzie felt the cold hand of doubt take hold as he watched the sun rise over the car yard as he stared down at the bent-in-half Taurus. The early morning light glinting off shredded metal and broken glass; illuminating the horrifying dark stains in the backseat of the smashed in Ford.

And Mozzie’s phone remained painfully silent.

***

Diana had made her last stop by the hospital at ten when she’d left the office; it had been nearly eleven by the time she’d made it home. By the time she’d escaped the hospital, Elizabeth was glad to be seeing the back of her. Peter had been growling. Poor Jones had thankfully been knocked out on the good stuff for the last half hour before she’d been able to make her escape and the attending nurses were wearing frowns that seemed to have set permanently into their faces. But for all their grumbling annoyance about their situation, there was nothing that Peter or Jones could discern that she hadn’t already and no look the hospital staff could give her or Peter that the pair of them couldn’t return.

The evidence had been there, as simple and straightforward and completely as unhelpful as it could be.

They had been driving back from the scene, when Peter had put his foot on the gas to take them through the intersection, where they only made it half way across before a black SUV ran the light and drove into them with the force of a freight train, pushing the Taurus across the intersection and nearly bending it in two. Peter had been lucky to escape the way he had. Jones had been a miracle.

There was nothing they could say about Neal.

Jones had been the last one to see their consultant and at the very least, Jones had assured her - and Peter, time and again - that Neal had left the car wreckage himself. He’d been standing.

They’d got into a black sedan and that was it. There was nothing else he could give. No one else at the scene could give any hints to license plates. The cameras within range were useless and grainy and at just the wrong angle to give anything more than what Jones had already told them and a terrifying view of the crash.

She had the probies searching for better footage. Registration numbers for black European made sedans in the New York area. For links to Neal, rumours from fellow CI’s that the time had come for Burke’s golden boy to be picked from the tree.

Rice had her people downstairs running through their intel, checking for anyone they knew who might be capable of something like Caffrey’s abduction was currently residing in the city. Diana had Morrison going through Mandy Brenner’s financials, trying to trace back the money she’d received for her part beyond anything than yet another shell company. Fenley was running task with Forensics and seeing what possible information they could get out of Luccson’s hideout and the abandoned SUV used to take out the Taurus. Blake was keeping tabs on the notes, trying to follow the couriers lead just that little further than Peter had managed. Diana had as many bases covered as she could think of, but it was exhausting. It had been an exhausting night, and she had followed it by coming in early; she’d been there since seven, the facts had been revolving around her head again and again to the point where she’d given up on sleep around five and there had been no other place for her to go.

She had no idea how anyone else in the unit had slept. How Peter had slept. Or Elizabeth.   
Hell, even Mozzie.

Peter had passed along the small man’s number but she hadn’t even had to call him, a conspicuously Mozzie like text had come through the afternoon before and another one at eight that morning.

Even Mozzie had nothing and was making her restless.

When Peter had been abducted two years ago her blood had been pounding and she’d had something to focus on. She’d known the protocol and she’d forced herself calm. She’d been forced to take care of Neal and that had been enough to keep her well occupied. This was proficiently more violent, more dangerous. This wasn’t about a game between Neal Caffrey and an old backgammon partner who had been cornered by his current predicament and his ominous history. This time they didn’t have a suspect yet. They had no motive, no hint or history or anything except the very real knowledge that whoever had Neal was ready to use as much force as necessary to get to him, and they had no qualms about other people getting in the way. It had been the Taurus and the sheer luck of the impact that had saved Peter and Jones’ lives, not the instruction of the guys driving the car.

This was a very different situation and she was having a hard time looking at it as objectively as she’d like.

But the first move after any use of brute force during an active case was to check for any possible hints that their suspect would go to any sort of length to get the case stopped, or at least postponed and theirs had their mysterious benefactor hanging overhead. It made sense, but Diana knew that her anxiety about finding a man who simply couldn’t be found, was all due to the seriousness of the situation at hand. Normally she’d take up the challenge, but her boss was in the hospital, so was Jones, and Neal Caffrey - the fourth wheel, was damn well gone and given the nature of his abduction he was hurt too.

Her team had been pulled apart by the stitches and she was in charge of getting it all put back together again and a small part of her was panicking. Was breathing hard and rocking back and forth in the forefront of her mind, constantly reliving the sight that had confronted her just hours ago. The screaming of onlookers and the echoing space of a moment where she just didn’t _breathe at all_ as she stared at the Taurus, nearly bent in half. Glass crunching underneath her boots as she ran from her own car towards the wreck. The whole scene had smelt like burnt rubber and car fuel, her heart had been pounding, pounding, _pounding_ in her ears as she’d run forward, shouting something – anything – and then she’d stopped outside the car and Peter’s face had been –

Diana stopped herself, forcibly making herself take a deep breath in and relaxing her grip on the coffee pot.

Peter was fine.

Jones was fine.

Neal was –

“ _Diana! Black sedan, European make – they took Caffrey.” Jones’ face was scrunched up in pain. Diana reached for her phone._

“Agent Berrigan?” Diana jumped as Blake tentatively called her name. She turned and nodded towards the young agent.

“Yes Blake?”

“This just arrived.” He held up an evidence bag. He looked uneasy, like he was scared of her. A lot of the probies were. But Blake had been with them for a good three years now, surely he had to know better. He wasn’t even a Probie anymore. All the same, he looked a little wary as he held up the evidence bag. She suspected Neal had been planting lies about her in the young agents heads and cultivating them over months, if not years. He’d enjoy that. In a small way, she enjoyed the idea of it too.

That small reflective thought disappeared immediately as she focused on the small piece of white card clutched in Blake’s fingers. Even from where she was standing, Diana could make out the single word typed out on the front.

Three.

It couldn’t be a coincidence.

“Pass that here.” She reached out to take the note off Blake and she stared at it for a moment before she looked back up at the junior agent.

“It was addressed to Agent Burke,” Blake said quietly. Diana nodded.

“Blake, I want you to bring up a list of every case Agent Burke has closed. Look for anything involving suspects with prior links to Neal or Luccson. Or any of Luccson’s associates. Anything that looks promising, I don’t care how obscure. Look for anyone who has ever made any sort of threat towards Peter or the Bureau. Any connection to using notes or threats ahead of time. Find anything, I don’t care how long the list is, we can narrow it down from there. Go.”

Blake nodded and was off even before Diana had a chance to glance back at her coffee mug. Not that she needed it any more.

Right then, she had to talk to Hughes.

If this had something to do with the notes, Neal might not be the only one in danger.

 

***

Peter didn’t take well to the third note arriving. It had been addressed to him, and when Diana had turned up at the hospital and held it out to him, his whole expression had darkened. Given their circumstances, she hadn’t expected it to be possible.

“Find me a doctor, Diana. Do whatever you have to get me signed out. I don’t care if it’s AMA, I’m coming back to the bureau with you.”

Diana nodded. She had sort of been expecting it the entire drive over and Hughes had simply sighed when she’d mentioned showing it to Peter. Yesterday, 24 hours had been compulsory leave at the very least, now they both knew there would be no stopping Peter.

“You can deal with Elizabeth, Peter. I’m having nothing to do with that conversation.”

“Good choice,” Jones called from his bed across the room, he didn’t sound quite lucid, but given the state of him, it was fair enough.

“That woman’s just as scary as my Grandma, and no one messed with Grandma,” Jones murmured, slurring over his words. He was half asleep and medicated out of his mind, but Diana couldn’t help but grin.

“I’ll be back,” she said, bowing out just as Peter started climbing out of bed and reaching for his bag of clothes. Diana was surprised to find them there. She wouldn’t have been surprised if Elizabeth had taken them with her when she’d left. But then again, Elizabeth had been married to Peter for almost fifteen years, she probably knew him better than anyone, and nearly everyone knew Peter wasn’t going to let this lie. That was even before the third note had shown up.

But with it, this became a hell of a lot more calculated. With the third note and it’s circumstances, it made the arrival of the first two all the more important. From the looks of it, considering when they arrived the notes actually did have something to do with their missing Kandinsky’s. Not that there was anything extenuating to prove it. All they had was the basis that the first note had arrived Tuesday morning; hours after the heist had taken place; the second after they’d hauled Mandy Brenner in for questioning and the third after Neal’s abduction. They weren’t concrete points along the timeline, but they were enough for Hughes, and enough for Diana. The whole thing was a mess and they needed to figure it out and fast. Neal didn’t have very long. Given the circumstances of his abduction, he was hurt and without attention… Diana didn’t even want to think about it.

Walking out into the hallway she moved down to the nurses’ station and leant on the table.

“I need everything that’s required to get Peter Burke released right now, consent forms, AMA, whatever is necessary. Right now.”

***

When they got back to the Bureau, Peter found himself a little overwhelmed for just a second as he walked through the glass doors and into mayhem. The bullpen was alive with movement. The desks on both sides of the room were stacked high with files, phones were ringing, agents leading back and forth between their desks and the coffee machine. Hughes was in the conference room with Blake and Agent Rice and with Diana right behind him; Peter made a beeline for the three of them, if a little slower than he’d like, his muscles stiff and sore.

But if the bullpen was busy and dramatic, the conference room was a step in the other direction but not in any way less resolute. It was quiet and somber, but there were no less files surrounding Blake, and the look of determination on Hughes’ face as he and Rice stared down at a shared file was palpable.

“Sir,” Peter said as he entered, Diana still right behind him. The three of them turned their attention straight to him and Peter could feel their eyes on the bruise down his face. He couldn’t blame them; he’d stared at it himself as he’d dressed back at the hospital. It was impressive and he understood why the pounding in his head was so pronounced, even with his share of painkillers. All the same, it was irrelevant. The bruise was what he had escaped with. Their attackers had escaped with Neal. Neal was more important than the state of his face.

“Jesus, Burke, you look horrendous,” Rice said and behind him Peter felt Diana bristle.  
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind for my modeling shoot next week. What’s everyone doing to find my CI?”

Peter knew he was out of line, a little too gruff, a little too demanding. Especially given the state of the office.

“Now, now, Burke, we’ve got this under control.”

“If we had this under control, Caffrey would be back by now.”

Or he wouldn’t have been taken at all.

Involuntarily, Hughes’ words from Monday morning echoed in Peter’s ears.

“ _Unless Forensics can find something Peter, there’s nothing more we can do. The courier lead went nowhere. As unsettling as it is, all we can do is wait it out._ ”

Unless Forensics found something. There had been nothing to find, because nothing had unfolded yet. Step one hadn’t yet been called in.

But now, now they were three steps in and three steps behind and he’d be damned if they were going to get any further. Not when they’d lost Neal already.

“So what _are_ we doing to get him back?”

***

Clinton had never been very good at staying still. When he was a kid his grandmother had to stay home to take care of him when he was ill because otherwise he simply wouldn’t stay in bed. He’d never taken to it well and as Day Two started to bleed back into focus he felt the niggling anxiety step in. Peter had been gone four hours; Clinton had slept for most of it. But now he was awake, he was uncomfortable and his whole side ached in this pulsing continuum and the worst part of it all was knowing how useless he had suddenly become. Each breath came with a jarring wince across his chest and already his arm itched under the plaster cast on his arm. Six weeks before they could entertain the possibility of having it removed. It was all laid on thick and his brain felt wooly and useless.

He was channel surfing like a pro when he heard someone’s footsteps cease in the doorway and when he glanced over he met the gaze of Elizabeth Burke. Her expression wasn’t tight or annoyed as he thought when he followed it over to Peter’s empty bed.  
“He’s not here.”

“I know,” she said, turning her attention to Clinton and walking over.

“He called me while Diana drove him back to the bureau.”

“Ah,” Clinton said, nodding and eyeing her.

“Why are you here? Can I ask?” he said, hurriedly. His slight embarrassment seemed mute when Elizabeth laughed at him lightly.

“I came to see you.”

“Me?”

“Yes you.”

“Any particular reason?”

“No. Just thought you could use the entertainment,” she said, sounding offhand, but Clinton understood her perfectly.

“I don’t know what they’re doing,” he said, somberly. Elizabeth nodded and Clinton’s realization jolted. She wasn’t here to find anything out; she was here because he couldn’t.  
She was sneaky.

“I know, it’s not a pleasant feeling, Agent Jones,” she said with a tight smile, like she knew he now understood.

“There’s plenty unpleasant feelings on my plate at the moment, Mrs Burke. One more can’t hurt.”

“Does it?”

Did it?

“Not quite yet. Maybe later, when I’ve used up all my visitation cards.”

“Does your arm?” she asked, softly. Clinton fixed his gaze on her. She was looking at him arm, the cast resting against his chest, there was the edge of mottled bruising sneaking up from between his shirt and his neck and he knew she’d seen that too. Perhaps she was here for more than just comforting him in the wake of being useless.

“The cast is the worst of it where that’s concerned. It itches. It’s the rest of me that’s the problem otherwise,” he said, his voice light, but all the same, Elizabeth reached out to smooth the corner of his blanket.

“He was alive when they took him, wasn’t he?” she asked and Clinton sighed. He nodded.

“He was. They got him out of the car and all I remember is that he was standing.”

 

“Do you think he’s alright?”

“I think Peter will bring him back,” Clinton said, determined. He knew he hadn’t answered her question and he knew so did she.

All the same it was answer enough for the pair of them. It was answer enough that he could give.

“I’m glad you’re all right Clinton,” she said, looking up at him, reaching out to hold his hand and gently squeezing it.

“Thank you, Elizabeth,” he said softly, squeezing back.

***

June had never really given up her old contacts; many of them went back too far to give up on each other now. Especially when most of them were her age or older still. Mostly quite a few of them were simply good old friends. But with them all there was an old camaraderie they maintained and honored, and – like her – they all had some contacts with the young ones as well, protégé’s or the occasional straggler in need of a little guidance they kept in their own little black books. Neal was hers and a unique breed, being a well rounded young rebel merely picking the wrong (or perhaps the right) woman to shine his smile at. She’d been a mark, until he’d realized that he’d become the mark instead and hadn’t even realized it. He’d doffed her husband’s hat then and bowed down to her, still wearing that cheeky grin and it had been more than enough. He’d been living upstairs ever since and the boy had become more than just a link to that old world, he’d become family and that made this much more personal as she let the waiter boy push her chair in. The restaurant was crowded and the chatter was dull and unimportant.

Mathias was always late, it had been a part of his charm twenty years ago and it was something the man hadn’t lost. Nor had he lost a single strand of hair on his head. It was salt and pepper and his eyes still had that sparkle, all but destroying the otherwise brutal expression his face seemed to settle into when he wasn’t smiling.

“Well, well, Ms June,” he said as he approached the table, pausing to take her hand and kiss it briefly. He’d always been a smooth talker, most of Byron’s friends had been. He’d also refused to call her anything but Ms June since they’d met. The joke had always been he was in denial she was already taken, but the joke had melted away when Byron had died if the name never had. He’d never tried anything on her; he hadn’t when her husband was alive and he hadn’t since Byron passed and that was regardless of whether or not June had known about Marie and the kids. But the rules had always been family was family and it stayed out of the way.

Except when it couldn’t.

“Mathias,” she greeted, watching him as he settled into the chair opposite her. His hair was slicked back and the cufflinks and rings on his fingers glinted in the restaurant lighting.

“How you been, Ms June?” he asked, fixing her with his sharpest gaze. He always gave her all of his attention, he always had. But that didn’t mean he didn’t know exactly what was going on around him at all times.

He always had a grasp on the bigger picture. It was why she called him. Why she knew if anyone could come though, it would be him.

“No good, dear. A dear friend of mine was taken, just the other day, Mathias. I would like him returned to me. I was hoping you could help.”

Mathias’ mouth tightened just a bit and June settled back in her chair.

“Well how about you pay for lunch, Ms June and I’ll see what I can do about getting that boy back to you.”

June nodded.

“Thank you, old friend,” she murmured, hoping that he couldn’t see the knot of anxiety that was still twisted in her gut.

She just wanted him home.

Was that too much to ask?

***

In those first few hours of restless searching he spent back at the bureau, Peter became very aware of just how competent his team was, and not just the immediate agents like Diana and the group of probies they had around the place. It went further than them, much further. The clerks and assistants not only put up with his short temper, but they were also efficient and intuitive and Peter had never really been prouder to work with them all, which was astounding, even to him, or rather – especially to him, given their closure rate anyway. But that was Neal’s influence. No matter what Peter could say about his motives Neal had the ability to make everyone feel involved, make them feel special. He made friends everywhere he went and he had a memory on him that never ceased to astound Peter. He knew everyone’s names in the office, their kids, their partners and hell, even anniversaries and birthdays. He no longer restricted his attentions just to Peter and the team, but he kept his net broad and cared for his catch and it seemed, in turn, they cared back.

Neal had spent the last few years really settling in. There had just been this point where Peter had been sure that he’d cornered Neal and Mozzie. There had been a rumor of a painting lost for a hundred years turning up in Manhattan and he’d been sure that he had them. It hadn’t been a painting off the manifest, but in the end, even the Manet had turned out to be a forgery and Neal had just looked at him like he knew Peter had suspected him and he’d just taken his hat off and put it in the bottom drawer and there it had stayed. It had felt like a chess move, especially when the hats stopped coming to the bureau. The vintage suits didn’t change, but there were no hats and no leads and Neal had just seemed so grounded that Peter had stopped looking. They’d never really talked about the sentiment. Elizabeth, however, had talked to Neal quietly one day and that night, once Neal had gone home and they were in bed, Peter looking over case files and El reading another book – his wife had simply started speaking. She didn’t look up from her book, and her voice remained quiet and controlled.

“He wants to stay, Peter,” she’d said. “He doesn’t want to run. He wants to stay.”

And that had been that.

Peter had forced himself to stop, then. Forced himself to accept Neal’s words to his wife for what they were.

He didn’t have any proof the treasure still existed except the inkling feeling Neal’s words had an underlying message he’d used Elizabeth as a conduit to deliberately avoid, but Peter was also certain that Neal wasn’t going anywhere. He was comfortable in the life Peter had offered him and that had swelled a balloon of pride in Peter’s chest that he couldn’t pop.

Not at least until they’d started working a case involving a break and enter involving a Matisse that seemed to escalate before the day was out into a kidnapping and then a horrifying moment of uncertainty. Peter had ended that day pacing up and down the corridor at Bellevue Hospital and raging at himself.

Neal had chosen to stay, and it had almost got him killed.

And now, while the clock was counting down to the end of Neal’s parole, fate had taken another stab at the kid and hadn’t missed.

And now, now there was more to do than pacing up and down a corridor, but all the same he felt just as helpless now as he did then. The difference was, this time, he had something to do, an aim instead of just leaking time and hope. But this time, while there were dozens of people actively looking for Neal, wearing away hours and hours of false leads and their own time, hope was thin and fading and time kept ticking away, like grains of sand falling between his fingers and all he could hear was the pounding in his chest and the screeching cries of metal and rubber as the SUV connected with his car.

Peter shook himself, sitting up straight and trying to quietly quell the shakes tingling down his fingers.

So this was how Neal had felt, after Kate died. After he almost did.

Peter closed his eyes for a moment and took a long deep breath in, his hands flat on his desk.

Calm.

Controlled.

That’s what he needed to be in order to get this done right. Get Neal back to them, but he was currently having a hard sight getting there.

He was so lost in his head that he jumped when he heard Diana’s soft knocking on his open door. He looked up and frowned at the look of concern on her face.

“Anything new?” he asked and her look turned to a sigh. She had a folder in one hand.

“You sure you should be here, Boss?” she asked quietly. Peter leant back in his chair. It had been hours since she’d picked him up from the hospital, and that question had been lingering on her lips all afternoon. He’d seen in more than once, in the frown of her lips, the crease in her brow, the narrowing of her eyes, the hesitancy on her tongue. It had been there, but it was only now, she asked.

“I have to be,” he said and she nodded, standing tall and squaring her shoulders. It was all she needed.

“Fenley came through. He’s been going through security camera’s facing the street in the surrounding mile radius and found the SUV driving past a technology hub two blocks away. They were running a full high definition security camera out their front window as a display model. They picked this up off the footage.” She set the folder down on Peter’s desk in front of him and he opened it. Inside was a series of photographs of a man’s profile, he had a sharp jaw and a army razor cut and a dark tattoo climbing up his neck from under his jacket that despite the good quality video, was distorted by the distance.

“Forensics are trying to clean it up and get a better look at the tattoo, but based on their calculations from the intersection tapes, he’s about 6”1. We got a reasonable look at him when he got out of the SUV. We’re running the picture through the identification database, but I doubt we’ll get a hit soon. It’s more than likely he’s got a record, but it’ll still be a miracle.”

“One we can’t rely on. That’s good work, Di, let me know if they get anything else.”  
Peter glanced idly up at her but couldn’t hold it. She was peering down at him oddly and he was having a hard time not staring at the photographs. He couldn’t remember him at all. Even from his dream, there was nothing. It was just the crash itself, nothing after. Nothing - at least - beyond that searing look from Neal.

“Has Blake found anything?”

“He’s looking. We’re looking.”

“Make sure he looks at anything where Neal and I were involved. Focus on anyone who’s been released recently. Anyone with violent connections.”

“We’re looking, Peter. We’re looking through everything. If it’s there, we’ll find it.”

Diana’s voice had all the conviction the statement needed, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes as he looked up at her, and he knew that she understood. This was hard on all of them and he knew he was forgetting he wasn’t the only one who cared. Everyone did.  
How selfish.

Peter sighed and leant forward, rubbing his eyes. It was dark outside and the whole place was lit up artificially, glaring and bright and he was tired. Bone weary and sore. They’d been here for hours. Pouring over statements and possible leads and endless dead ends and they were getting nowhere.

He looked up at Diana.

“You should go home, Di, get some sleep.”

She smiled, tapping the folder on the desk.

“You doing the same thing, Boss?” she asked and Peter sighed again, glancing down at the bull pen. There were still agents down there, working through it all. There would be all night through.

“Yeah, yeah I am,” he said quietly, turning his gaze on the smiling photo of Elizabeth sitting on his desk.

“I’m right behind you.”

***

Day three started later than Elizabeth expected, but day two had ended earlier than she had thought as well. Peter had actually come home, which was one thing she hadn’t been expecting at all. In all their years together, Peter had spent quite a few all nighters on far less important cases.

Albeit, none of them were quite this stressful and none of them had impacted on Peter’s health prior to his determined all nighter, either. Despite his convictions otherwise, she knew he was still hurting, and she knew he had either forgotten or refused to take the prescribed pain meds the hospital had given him. She was betting on the latter with an added dose of the former. Either way, it had been a bit of a shock when he’d dragged himself home at nine the night before. He’d looked ragged, tired and in pain. It was the closest she’d ever seen to seeing her husband broken as she’d crossed the room to wrap her arms around him and hold him for a moment. Just hold him and breathe him in and listen to him breathe.

In all the years he had worked for the bureau, she’d been on the receiving end of a half dozen uneasy agents on her doorstep informing her that something had happened to her husband. He’d been poisoned and kidnapped, shot and concussed (more than once). She’d had similar instances where Peter had called to say something had happened to Neal, and on those nights too, Peter had always come home shaken and a little unsure. Angry and resilient.

She never really got over any of them. She pretended she did, and in a way, they didn’t affect her as much as they did when they first happened. But all the same, they added up.  
They were going to need a vacation after this. Regardless of Peter’s workaholic stature, they needed a break, an extended break; a long-service-leave type break.

“I can’t find him, El,” Peter had whispered last night and suddenly El had been wrenched out of her reverie in an instant and she’d pulled back to take Peter’s head in her hands and she had stared up into his eyes.

“You will,” she’d said, and in the darkness of their bed, as Peter had fallen deep into an exhausted sleep, El found herself facing the first time she had ever seen real fear in her husband’s eyes, real doubt, that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t.

The look was gone when Peter woke the next morning, dressing quickly and leaving barely without pause, his conviction seemingly returned. But all the same, as Elizabeth dressed herself, forcing herself to continue the daily routine of managing her business – if only to keep her mind busy – she couldn’t help but remember that startling look in Peter’s eyes, and the moment where the idea Neal might not make it home, became suddenly all too real a possibility.

***

Even with the help of a computer cutting out a lot of the ground work, trying to trace any threats he’d received over the years was like trying to find a needle in a haystack; a single viable threat in a haystack full of threats.

There were more than Peter thought and he was glad that they had bypassed his knowledge for so long. Many of them were useless. After all, he worked White Collar. Most of those he convicted had some form of gift for the gab, and thankfully, a lot of them were just gab. But this was very real, and he couldn’t seem to make the connection he was after. It was all about the letters, but he couldn’t find anything that matched. He had half the probies working through the case files with him, the other half chasing up viable leads, but the leads were small and often useless and everything seemed to go nowhere.

And the whole time he was completely aware of the sound of the clock ticking on the wall, on his wrist, clicking over in the corner of his computer screen.

Every minute ticking away another moment where Neal was still lost, still needing them to find him and with it, every minute ticking away another minute where it was more likely they were searching for a body than their friend.

So he worked.

He turned another page and he slid another cleared file into the box on the side of his desk and he reached for another one.

They had cleared a lot of cases in the last three years, and given that Neal was also a target, that’s where they’d started, cases where their man knew Neal as well as Peter. It was a start and Peter knew it could go further back, but right then, the focus was on the last three years. If this went any further into his past and Neal was paying the price for something he had no part in – then Peter didn’t know if he could forgive himself.

The only other option was that Neal was paying the price for something he himself had done, and the notes to Peter had just been that, informing the handler on Neal’s leash that the leash was about to be yanked out of his hands.

Peter sighed and ran his hands down his face.

What on earth had either of them done to get into this? What could they have avoided? What could they have done differently?

“Agent Burke?”

Peter looked up sharply. Blake was standing in the doorway.  
“What is it?”

“A possible lead?” he said, nervously.

“Tell me.”

Blake nodded and stepped into the office.

“I don’t know if you’ve already thought of it or not, but I was just thinking and something Neal said came back to me.”

Blake shifted nervously for a moment before he cleared his throat. The man would be _utterly_ useless in any sort of undercover op, but he was a good researcher, an avid worker and he had a keen mind.

“Neal said once that the reason he sent gifts to agents on stakeouts when you were chasing him, was because it was about the game. About making sure both sides were playing and aware they were. He said sometimes half the fun of a con is making sure someone is aware you’re pulling it. I was just thinking, the notes, they were sent to show us something had happened each time. The robbery, bringing in one of the suspects, taking Caffrey, the notes were there to make sure we know it’s him. It’s part of their game. It’s showing their moves.”

Blake looked hesitant but Peter was gripping the plastic evidence bag hard, the young agent’s words echoing in his skull as he stared down at the first note. The notes were about showing their opponent’s moves.

Moves.

Games.

Notes.

 _Keller._

“I know it’s not much sir, but what if the notes weren’t exactly threats but moves?“

It was something Peter was sure everyone had thought over at least once. They’d been focusing on the meaning behind them but perhaps in all the wrong ways. Saying it out loud was perhaps the best way to think them out. What if they were overthinking it? What if it really was that simple? And if it was, so simultaneously complex.

They were moves.  
This is my turn, now it’s yours.

“No. It’s something,” Peter said, blithely, standing up. “Look into it, Blake, look into everything. I’m going to check with a source.”

Blake nodded and followed Peter out the door as he started down the stairs. His body still ached and moving so quickly was probably a bad idea, but he needed to find Mozzie, he needed to look him in the eye and know for sure whether or not Matthew Keller had risen his head after nearly twelve months underground.

***

Mozzie had long since moved past meeting Peter in the park. But, given that he had already been in the park when the Suit had called, well, it made sense.

He at least had the courtesy to not force the Suit into a ruse. He didn’t have the time to set it up.

Rory Roadkill had stuck around for all of thirty seconds of the original meeting, and taken Mozzie’s money to tell him that no one was up to saying anything about Neal. Still. It had been over thirty six hours and no one seemed to have heard of a call to arms, a threat, even. It was silent. No one he knew was talking.

All they had was a sentence from one of June’s contacts and that was it.

It was driving him nuts.

“Tell me that this has nothing to do with Matthew Keller.”

To give it to the Suit, Mozzie genuinely hadn’t seen him approach until he was standing over him, bearing down on Mozzie’s smaller stature. It wasn’t at all polite, really.

And the man was ten minutes early, too.

“Come off it, Suit, do you really think that Keller could pull off something like this? He doesn’t have enough friends,” Mozzie said with all the disdain he could muster. Peter still didn’t look satisfied as he sat down.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Of course it’s not. Because Keller’s not the answer to our question. I already looked into it, Suit. He hasn’t surfaced and if he was behind it, then someone would say something. Everyone knows about Neal and Keller’s rivalry. It’s one of those known things. It’s practically a sport given the betting involved.”

“He couldn’t have paired up with someone to pull this?” Peter pressed.  
Mozzie bristled.

“No.”

Peter let out a frustrated huff.

“Then who could? Honestly, off the book, who could possibly hate Neal this much to take him like that?”

“What makes you think it’s Neal?” Mozzie scowled. Peter at the very least, had the decency to look uncomfortable.

“You’d tell me if there was something he’d been hiding, wouldn’t you, Mozzie? If there’s something that could help this case – “

“I’m appalled at your opinion that you’re the only one trying to find him.”

“He’s been acting off for over a week, Mozzie. If that has any connection to why Neal was kidnapped, then tell me, now.”

“It’s got nothing to do with it!” Mozzie replied. The Suit’s expression didn’t change and Mozzie’s own anxiety clenched. He’d wondered briefly whether Neal had worn his waning façade into the Den, and it appeared he had. He knew trying to make Neal make his decision was going to be hard. It was why he’d started selling the treasure now, in tiny doses carefully released. Getting him back into the idea of their last big score slow and steady. He knew Neal was still hesitant, still loved his life in New York, and now that he was almost free, he was more willing to the idea of boosting their coffers a little bit; the itch of freedom making his other temptations a little harder to keep at bay. As long as Peter remained completely unaware (so far so good, or so it had seemed) Mozzie had been sure that Neal could have his cake and eat it, too. After all, they’d spent the better part of four years collecting the ingredients and guarding them well enough they practically deserved it.

No, this had nothing to do with the treasure. It was too well guarded, and if it had been, the letters would have been for him and Neal, not Neal and the Suit.

“You sure Mozzie?”

“You want it signed in blood or something? I don’t know why Neal was off, but as far as I’m aware it’s got nothing to do with this. He would have told me if there was something wrong.”

“Like the note?”

“He told me about the note. And the tail.”

“And you’re _sure_ it’s not Keller?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Suit, but Matthew Keller is so far underground even Otto Lindenbrock would never have come across him. Besides, Keller couldn’t have pulled this off. He’d need friends, and Keller was never that popular in the playground. This feels bigger. It has to be bigger, Suit; look at how they grabbed him. No gun or muscle man for hire is going to agree to trying to kill a Fed. Even they’re not that dumb. Who ever is running this is big. They’ve got reach. They’ve got leverage. This is dangerous.”

It was the only thing Mozzie felt right in figuring out. This went way beyond anyone that Neal had ever worked with. Even in those stretches of time where the kid had gone running off and getting himself in trouble it had never been like this. Whoever had taken him had goons; loyal, dangerous goons and the only type with that sort of upstanding loyalty were bonded in blood and a singular paternity.

One of the best things Mozzie found (and similarly the worst things) about the Suit, was that he was able to understand scatters of information and put them together in a big picture with startling ease. It was what had helped him catch Neal, it was what helped him keep on top of Neal and it was one of those qualities that Mozzie both admired and hated, because it was fantastic to see in action, and also painstakingly hard to keep ahead of a lot of the time. And it didn’t help that over the last four years, the Suit had learned his own breed of shorthand putting together Neal-and-Mozzie shaped information.

Mozzie watched as comprehension crawled over Peter’s face and then his expression darkened.

“You trying to tell me you think Neal was taken by the _mob_ , Mozzie?”

Mozzie didn’t nod or shake his head he just frowned and plucked his glasses off his face, reaching into his pocket to pull out a handkerchief and started cleaning them.

“Which one is up to you, Suit. This guy has a crew, and he didn’t advertise or hire them. They’re brethren. June says it’s about a favor and lesson, that’s all her contact could find and better than anything would tell me. The only place you’re going to get a crew big enough and still not have them question you when you say crash into a fed’s car and steal his consultant, is in organized crime.”

“This isn’t a conspiracy theory, Mozzie.”

Mozzie slipped his glasses back on his nose and Peter’s worried frown came back into focus. For all his concern, Mozzie couldn’t stop the annoyance breaking through. He stood up and this time it was his turn to look down on Peter.

“You think I don’t know that? Neal’s my friend, too, Suit. Or perhaps you keep forgetting that. It’s not my fault he’s missing.”

One step too far. Horace had said anger was a short madness and he watched the anger clamber for space over Peter’s face. If they didn’t get Neal back soon this madness would no longer be short. In himself or the Suit.

“So now we’re passing blame are we?” Peter asked, his eyes narrowed.

“Only where it’s due, Government Man,” Mozzie scowled. He couldn’t stick around any longer. He took a step away. Peter was still scowling.

“I’ll call you if I know anything,” he said to the other man, who was still sitting on the bench and staring at him. Mozzie couldn’t stand it any longer. He turned around and as the afternoon sun peaked through the smog, he let the crowd swallow him as he tried to fight the dozen or so emotions battling out for their own slice of the action, and Mozzie couldn’t figure out which one to let take over first.

Not that any of them were going to be any help.  
He had a friend to find.

***

Signing out Against Medical Authority was a hell of a lot harder than Jones expected. It had seemed simpler for Peter; there had been less hassle and less glaring. In Jones’ case, there had been two forms and this ill-frowning nurse watching as he’d signed them. The hard part was getting his hands on those damn forms. He asked for them twice, wincing as he’d tried to sit up properly and been laughed at by the attending nurses. It had taken blackmail to get Blake down from the bureau and give him the boost he needed to get the forms.

Normally he didn’t like pulling rank, but he was going insane doing nothing. There was only so many times he could try to pay attention to the pointless crap on the TV and only so long he could ignore the circumstances of his incarceration, whether it be Neal’s abduction, or the pain ricocheting halfway around his chest every time he inhaled (or exhaled) and the itching burn of the cast on his arm.

He wasn’t expecting anything substantial, he knew he what he was getting himself in for, but until he knew a little more about what the hell was going on and they were one step closer to getting Neal back.

And while he’d been expecting to be met with more resistance back at the bureau than he was even at the hospital, he wasn’t really expecting Hughes to go at him the way he did.

Still, as Blake drove him back to his own apartment, Clinton couldn’t help the feeling of victory he had at the box full of case files he had in the back seat.

He may not have been able to return to any sort of duty in the building (“it’s bad enough having one agent running around the place when he should be on leave, Agent Jones, I won’t be having two! _Especially_ when the second can barely stand up, let alone even _think_ about running!”) He wasn’t off the case completely, and in the end that’s what mattered.

 

***

“How are we doing on that facial recognition?” Peter asked, looking up at Diana.

“Nothing’s come up yet. We’re still running it,” she replied, watching him. He looked tired. Out of all of them, she knew Peter was the one taking this the hardest; he was their leader, the man in charge. He was Neal’s handler, his friend, and Diana knew Peter was blaming himself for so much that could not have been his fault in the slightest. But that was Peter; he was a man who liked to keep his friends safe, especially in a job when it wasn’t always a certifiable possibility. It had happened once before, he’d almost lost Neal in a bust and Peter hadn’t taken it well. He’d been careful before, in no way had she ever worried about putting her life in Peter Burke’s hands. But since Neal had almost died six months ago, that care had taken one step further up the scale. Nothing extreme, nothing that had worried her; in a way it had just made Peter more… Peter.

Now though, now all that care had come to nothing. Peter hadn’t expected it, he hadn’t foreseen anything like this, and she knew he was feeling it.

It was written all over his face, in the cuts and the ugly bruise that had settled over the side of his face, mottling the skin purple and green. It had been three days.

She could still remember the moment of panic that had run through her when she’d looked through that front window and seen Peter slumped against the door with blood running down his face, not moving. She could almost still feel that unsettling terror that had taken hold of her for a moment as she’d taken in the sight in front of her. It hadn’t felt real, and in a way it still didn’t. She wasn’t heartless, but after what she’d seen in her lifetime, sometimes she couldn’t help but wish maybe she was. How it somehow might make it easier. Christie liked to joke that she kept her frailties locked behind iron doors and grating bars so that no one could get at them, not even herself. In some ways, her girlfriend’s words seemed to ring true. It only helped that Christie had the key and had stopped her from locking the doors again like they had been after Charlie’s death.  
But that didn’t stop her from closing the doors every now and again.

Peter sighed and Diana watched as his face relaxed for a moment as he closed his eyes briefly and then opened them, looking up at her. His expression tightening again.

“See if anything comes up with Organized Crime’s database. The Little Guy seems to think we may be dealing with a mob hit.”

He sounded unsure as he said it, but Diana knew he wouldn’t have voiced the results of Mozzie’s slanted logic if it didn’t hold any weight, and given the circumstances, Mozzie’s slanted logic had a right mind to be a better hit on their radar than anything they’d tried so far.

All the same, a mob hit?

“A mob hit? What on earth did Neal do to get in with the mob?” She asked watching Peter carefully. He looked just as disconcerted as she felt. “The only connections to Organized Crime Neal’s ever had was because of us. Right, boss?”

Peter shrugged, but he didn’t look infuriated with Neal, so that had to be true. Although, he didn’t sound quite as accepting as he spoke.

“Mozzie says Neal’s innocent, he seems to think it’s got something to do with me. But he would. He and Neal can do no wrong, especially when they’re up to something wrong. But it makes sense, what he said. He seems convinced that the way they took Neal required loyalty you only get with the families, and I think he may be right. I want to look into it, anyway.”

“I’ll get on it, Boss,” Diana nodded.

“I’ve been looking into Luccson as well,” Diana continued. “I’ve been going through the transcript logs forensics sent up. There’s a lot there, but they found a bunch of communications from Luccson to an unknown ISP. IT have tried to track it down, but apparently whoever he was talking to online knew how to bounce their signal around a whole lot, they lost track of the signal somewhere in Russia, which makes sense with the Kandinsky connection, but they make mention of a couple of New York locales, so they were definitely in the area, and by the sounds of it, Luccson definitely knew who they were. Or at least a middleman.”

“Dammit,” Peter swore and Diana shifted her weight to her other foot as Peter leant back in his chair. She could practically see the thoughts clambering across his brain – if only he hadn’t shot Luccson then… then Neal could be dead already instead of missing and he might never have told them who hired him. They could have wound up right back here anyway.

“You did what you had to do, Boss,” she said quietly and Peter nodded.

***

“Yeah. Is there anything else in the transcript?” Peter asked.

Diana made a pointed face.

“Yeah. From the looks of it, Neal was right when he said they would have offloaded the artwork quickly. There’s mention of a meet the morning after, about 10am Tuesday. It doesn’t mention where, just an old locale, but I’m going through the transcript as Forensics sends it up, so I’ll let you know if I find anything else.”

“Thankyou, Diana,” Peter said. She held his gaze a little longer but neither of them said anything.

Peter felt tired. Weary.

How could they still have so damn _little_?

Finally, Diana broke their gaze and nodded to herself. She had a tight clench of determination in her jaw.

Of all the probies Peter had ever ran through the offices, Diana had always been the best of them. She was proud, determined, brilliant. Smart. Oh so smart. And a little savage. She loved her country, and her job and her team.

If anyone could help him lead them to find Neal, it was Diana.

Peter just wished he had more faith that they could.

And that fact was a terrifying.

Peter watched her head back down to her desk before he sighed, slumping forward and rolling his shoulders, trying to sooth the aching muscles.

But no matter how brilliant a tem he had, he was beginning to hope that someone would step forward to claim the crash, claim the plan as their own and reveal their intent. He wasn’t sure what was driving him mad more – the fact that they had Neal, or that they had Neal and he didn’t know _why_. Why they took him, or who they were. All he knew was that it wasn’t Mozzie, and that Neal was in very real danger and it was killing him not knowing a thing. There was no trace.

And so far they had worked through nearly three days of solid work with little more than a dozen or so case files with possible leads that seemed to be going nowhere, and taking far too long to get there. The worst part was it could have been any of them. This whole plan had been too well orchestrated for it to be in any way easy. They had to investigate every possible lead they could until they reached a point where they could prove it wasn’t them.

There was simply a lack of sustainable evidence. It was all hanging on identifying their mystery driver and even with his tattoo nothing had come up so far. From all the footage they had of him every angle was too distorted or there was a reflection on the car windows to get a good shot of it. So it was down to the man’s face, a profile and a shadow of anything else.

If it was any other case, they’d be scrounging for a lead. Or, in a stroke of brilliance, Neal would come up with the key to it all. The irony wasn’t lost on Peter; the one case they needed Neal, was the case they needed to solve to _find_ Neal. The knowledge burned and Peter buried himself a little deeper into his files.

They had a SUV that crashed into his Taurus, kidnapping Neal out of the backseat and dragging him into a black sedan that seemed to disappear into traffic. They had three notes, delivered by couriers who found the letters on their delivery log but not in the system. They had courier clerks denying any sort of bribery payment to have the deliveries listed, no matter how they were threatened. They had a stolen Kandinsky. They had a forged Kandinsky that was painted by an assistant manager for the gallery she worked at and where the painting was stolen that they couldn’t pin down on a timeline. They had a dead thief, and a mystery man running the entire charade and they were no closer to piecing it all together than they had been before Neal had been taken.

And no matter how good his team was, Peter was beginning to panic.

***

It had something to do with the paintings.

It wouldn’t leave Peter alone.

It had something to do with them, he was sure of it; they were the start of it all. It had to have something to do with them.

The issue had to be he wasn’t asking himself the right questions.

So he started asking himself all of them.

Why those paintings? Out of all the art in Manhattan, why were those two works chosen to start this whole thing? It wasn’t anything to do with Neal. Neal was Impressionism and Post-Impressionism. He didn’t deal in expressionism, or Der Blaue Reiter or especially abstractions. Or at least he hadn’t in Peter’s history. He obviously knew about them, he knew a lot. He knew about almost all art the same way he knew about sixteenth century Danish astronomers, even if sometimes he mixed them up with fifteenth century Dutch astronomers. Neal prided himself on knowing the important parts of practically everything. Even after three and a half years he was still amazed at times at just how much Neal knew about things that never seemed relevant at all until they came across them in a case and then all he had to do was look at Neal and that mouth would open and the important facts would just spill out like a volcano.

It’s times like that where Peter really understands Neal’s worth, it’s that brain of his that made him impossible to catch until Peter had stopped staring at what that brain had spurred, and had listened to Diana and aimed instead at Neal’s heart. He’d caught Neal because he’d used Kate against him. It was his heart that made him beautiful and charming and willful. It was his brain that made him brilliant and criminal.

And if anyone else knew that, then what damage could be done.

But they clearly didn’t.   
They didn’t know because they had hurt him, they had crashed through an intersection and taken him by force and it couldn’t have been something to do with using Neal’s skills because they could have easily killed him. But they hadn’t somehow, but they had hurt him. Needlessly. If they’d known about Neal, they could have taken a very different road and still taken him.

They knew nothing about Neal.  
Not properly. Not even his reputation, because it was as ingrained in his reputation as it was in Neal. Neal was a gentleman criminal. One of the old souls who disliked guns and was witty and charming and could have you sign away your life’s work but instead stole it while you weren’t looking because Neal knew the burden of a man’s own guilt and embarrassment. And he never stole from anyone who couldn’t notice it missing.

Neal wasn’t cruel.

And they hadn’t known that.

They’d just taken him. They’d threatened him, sent a letter to his house; they’d tailed him, followed him – and then they’d taken him and it felt so impersonal to Neal it felt strange and it was driving Peter mad.

This could all have almost been about Peter. Or Diana or Jones as it was about Neal on that very first day when Peter had received that note.

Except that Neal had picked out the forgery.

Neal had been the one to pick out that there was more to the heist than just one painting going missing.

Maybe that was it.

Maybe that had been the push that came to shove and started all this?

Peter sighed and rubbed his eyes, hunched over his kitchen table.  
He felt like he was dragging himself around and around in circles. Everything felt connected in some way, he just couldn’t figure out how.

They had two paintings, a theft and a forgery swap that could have been the night of the robbery or it could have been earlier. No one had noticed.

They had a dead thief, a forger who knew nothing about who she was working for except said dead thief and a payment that could have been for one or both of the robberies from a puppeteer that they were still searching for.

Who may or may not have been someone that Peter had wronged. He didn’t know.   
It could have been a past case, or it could have been someone like the Architect, showing off, but with a more dangerous flair.

And it all started with those paintings.

It was all about a favor and a lesson.

But what was what?

***

The call came in the next morning when Peter was halfway out the door, his arms full of folders he’d taken home to peruse and his cell phone buzzing in his pocket. It took a few hazardous moments before he retrieved it, a single ring away from voicemail.

They had something.

He almost broke half a dozen laws on the trip in, and the moment Peter entered the office Hughes didn’t wait a second. He left his office and called Peter up with a short sharp bark and the two finger salute.

He was looking at Peter with a solemn expression on his face as Peter closed the door behind him. The look on his Hughes’ face had his stomach twisted six ways to Sunday and clinging to his hope by the tips of his fingers. The phone call from Morrison hadn’t been long, but it had been explicit.

It _had_ to have been about Neal.

He _knew_ this had to be about Neal. Everything was about Neal.

Until they found him, that was Peter’s oath, an oath to himself, to Mozzie, to June and Elizabeth, and most importantly, to Neal.

Peter shut the door and turned to face his superior as Hughes settled himself on the corner of his desk.

As Peter stared at the old man, waiting for him to speak he couldn’t help but take in that Hughes looked just as weary as he did, and he’d been working Neal’s disappearance since the afternoon it happened, on the clock, off the clock, around the clock.   
Hughes sighed.

“Peter, Organized Crime had a walk in this morning. Nikolai Volkov. Do you know him?”

Peter braced himself, hands on his hips and he nodded.

“Russian, runs his own little crime syndicate. We busted him for art theft, what, six years ago?”

Hughes nodded, still frowning.

“He went away for five, got out two months ago. He walked to the front desk this morning and said he needed to confess. Ruiz has spent the last hour with him. Ten minutes ago he told us he knows where Caffrey is.”

Peter felt his stomach make a drop for his shoes and then, in a sudden change of mind make a break for freedom out his mouth. He swallowed, hard.

 _He knew where Neal was_ , but in what condition remained painfully undisclosed. Peter forced himself to take a breath before he spoke.

“Did he say where?”

Hughes sighed, and offered Peter a small shake of his head, his arms bracing him against his desk.

“He hasn’t yet. He’ll only tell you, apparently.”

Peter almost tripped over his haste to get the words out.

“Then let me talk to him. Which floor’s he on? I’ll get it out of him.”

Hughes took a moment and frowned even deeper than he had before.

“I don’t like this, Peter. It feels like a set up and Ruiz agrees with me.”

“Ruiz hates Neal.”

“Caffrey’s not got anything to do with this. I want him back just as much as you do, Peter, but this stinks like a set up and if you’d been sleeping the last week you’d agree with me. We have to be careful about this.”

Peter scowled; he was almost to the edge of being careful. He was almost at the point of being reckless, off-the-grid-helping-Mozzie reckless. That was saying something, and he knew it. That knowledge was the only thing keeping him from actually doing it.

“Let me in, let me get the address, after that we can be as cautious as you want. Just let me find him.”

Hughes sighed and glanced down in the bullpen, where agents were milling about; more than half of them were looking for Neal. He turned back to Peter and Peter spent the next ten seconds painfully searching his face for any sign of what he was about to say. Finally the man gave in.

“Get the address, Peter. But no further. If he baits you, for _God sake_ don’t bite.”

***

The walk down to Organized Crime had Peter’s heart pounding in his throat the whole time. His brain was awash with niggling possibilities about Neal, where he was, who had him, why they had him – _what they’d done to him._

It was almost a damn miracle in itself when Peter let himself into the interrogation room and didn’t drag him out of the chair and slam him up against the wall. Instead he calmly walked over to the table and threw the folder down in front of him. He didn’t open it, it didn’t even have anything to do with Neal, he’d just needed something to hold onto on the walk down – but Volkov didn’t know that. He also didn’t need to know that Peter knew if he sat down he’d start shaking. That wouldn’t help either. He braced himself against the table and looked down at the man sitting in front of him.

“You said you’d only tell me, well here I am. Where is Neal Caffrey?”

Volkov looked up at Peter, a pleased look across his old face. He’d been through the mill, Nikolai Volkov, he was weathered and wily, white hair and sharp grey eyes. He reminded Peter of a bird of prey. His hands were folded neatly in front of him and he spoke with a calm, perfectly accented voice.

“Agent Burke, how pleasant it is to see you.”

“Where is he?” he asked again, and for the most brief of seconds it took all of Peter’s restraint not to lash out as the man smiled.

“Come now, Peter, we must talk! After all, there is much to discuss - ”

“We talk after you tell me where Neal is. Not before.”

Volkov smiled, tight and simultaneously taunting. Peter’s ears rang with Hughes’ warning and he could feel his own brain thrumming with the truth of it. There was more to this, which is why it almost shocked him when Volkov smiled again, leaning back casually in his seat.

“Very well then, I see you drive a hard bargain, Peter. I surrender.”

The old man paused for a moment and in that space Peter genuinely had no idea what to do or say. He felt off kilter. This wasn’t how it was meant to go. There was more to this than met the eye. That fact sunk deeper into his brain as Volkov smiled and opened his mouth again, leaning forward to get closer to Peter.

“You can find your friend in warehouse thirteen, Agent Burke. In my shipping yard. I do, however, suggest you hurry - ” The man smiled, eyes flashing - “he has been on his own an _awful_ long time.”

The sudden thrill that ran through Peter went immediately cold and his stomach made another bid for his shoes, sinking like a stone. He was barely aware of moving until the handle of the door was clutched in his fist and he was face to face with Ruiz as he was about to enter.

Peter stormed past and out the door, feeling the slam behind him like a wave. He stared at the young agent still standing guard in the corridor.

“How long has he been in here?”

The kid blanched and then realized who Peter was talking about. Probies these days, honestly.

“He walked in a seven minutes past five this morning. Everyone had to be called in.” The young man finally managed. Peter glanced down at his watch, it was quarter to eight, Neal had been alone for almost three hours. What that meant made Peter’s terror spike. Neal had been with them for four days, the fact they’d got no message, that he’d not escaped was hard enough, but three hours alone…

Neal was nothing if not vigilant about staying alive.

Peter took a breath in and faced the young agent.

“Three hours – he’s been on his own for three hours.” The agent stared at him not quite understanding the implications at hand. Peter pulled his phone out as he pushed past the kid and headed back towards the elevator.

“Diana, get a team prepped, I want them ready to leave ASAP.”

“ _You got a location boss?_ ” She sounded hopeful.

“Volkov’s shipping yard, warehouse thirteen. Get Cooper to get us an address, tell him to stay at his desk. You can meet me and Blake at the car.”

“ _Gotcha boss,_ ” Diana murmured, hanging up as Peter neared the end of the corridor.

Neal had been on his own for three hours, three hours longer than the four days he’d been missing.

Peter started to run.

***

The shipping yard of Nikolai Volkov was a sprawling mess of interconnected warehouses, some in complete and utter disrepair, others fully functional and almost alien in how polished and mechanical they were.

Peter’s hands were cramping with how hard he was grasping his steering wheel as he lead the cavalcade through the shipping yard. The car shrieked as Peter slammed his foot on the breaks and pulled up outside the yard long warehouse with a giant peeling 13 falling off the side of it’s rusted out walls.

Peter was the first out and stood in the shadow of the car as the others pulled to a halt around him. The front door of the warehouse was partially open. There was a foot wide gap of darkness into the warehouse itself, but that open space felt like an invitation. It felt chilling in the complexity of it. Like Volcov had planned it.

He probably had, this whole thing felt eerily like a game.

A puzzle.

Peter liked mysteries. He loved the challenge, proving his worth. But this was different. This wasn’t just winning the satisfaction of a completed puzzle at the end. This prize was sacred; this was Neal.

“It’s like he’s inviting us in,” Diana murmured as she stopped next to Peter. Peter’s throat was dry as he tried to answer. It came out as a croak.

“We find him, Diana.”

She nodded.

“Hughes called, the warrant came through. We’re fine. He’s sending a bus, just in case.”

Peter felt his stomach jolt even though he knew it was actually a smart order. Given the way Neal was taken, it was likely to be needed.

He hoped. Dear God, let them have this. Let them get him back…

“Good.” He croaked.

“Blake, Fenley – open the doors. Morrison, King, you two cover them. When you’re ready!” Diana ordered, stepping away from Peter, one hand on her gun, the other pointing to the other agents. Peter took a deep breath in and waited. Diana had this covered.

Peter watched as Diana counted down with her fingers, everyone silent, guns ready as the two Agents braced themselves against the door and pulled.

The door shrieked as it was rolled aside, straining against the concrete and sending up a wave of chipped paint and dirt and the heavy smell of paint stripper and dust.

Peter’s heart sank as he stared at what was inside.

“Shipping containers. It’s a warehouse in a shipping yard, of course there was going to be shipping containers,” Peter heard himself murmur, not really consciously aware as he stared at the maze that awaited them.

He looked to the grouping agents. Taking back control.

“Split into groups, you two follow Blake and start with the left half of the building, Diana, take the back row there, King, Morrison – You’re with me. You open every container, you hear. We find Caffrey and we find him today. Got it?”

“Got it, Peter,” Diana said, leading Agent Fenley to the back row of shipping containers that Peter had pointed to. Peter watched her go for a moment before turning back to the two Agents waiting for his orders. Blake was leading his two Agents towards the right end of the warehouse. Peter turned to King and Morrison.

“Start here, we’ll work backwards. Keep an eye out for signs of habitation. We clear each and every container in this room.”

The pair nodded as they walked up to the first container. The first three were unlocked and despite himself, Peter found his nerves pounding and a rush of building excitement thrummed through him as they pulled open the door to shine their torches inside. Each time he was disappointed.

They found crates filled with scrap newspaper clippings in the first container. The second yielded the same and as they busted open container after container with the same crates full of nondescript shredded paper Peter’s nerves started to fray. And the worst part of it, beyond the taunting pointlessness of the paper was the fact it wasn’t leading him any closer to his incentive: Neal.

They’d been there for what seemed like an hour before Blake’s voice crackled through the radios.

“Agent Burke, I think we found him.”

Peter’s heart nearly jumped into his mouth at the sound of the young agent’s voice.  
“Where are you?”

“North east corner, second row back.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Yes Sir.” Blake’s voice echoed just as Peter started to run back the way he had come. Turner and Laurence were standing by the opposite container as Peter neared. Fenley was standing closer, holding the bolt cutters he’d been using with Diana. Diana was next to Blake who was cutting through a lock with his own pair of cutters.

“How do you know he’s in there?” Peter asked as he crossed the distance between Blake and Diana, just as Blake was unlocking the door of the storage container.

“This,” Diana said, holding out what Peter recognized as a present tag tied with bright blue ribbon. His name was written on one side of the tag, exactly like Elizabeth did with all his birthday presents. The paper was plain white and exactly like the notes.

On the other side was a single word.

Check.

Peter’s heart started to pound.

The door of the container shrieked as Blake pulled it open. Behind him Peter could hear the sound of the accompanying Agents standing ready, their guns drawn in case this was all a trap.

And it felt like one.

Peter held his breath as he followed Diana into the container and the temperature seemed to increase. It was hot and stuffy and the air felt thick. The room was dark and stacked with crates. Peter held his breath as he entered, his gun in front of him, eyeing the dim light and the space behind the crates. Three steps into the container he had room enough to see over the first row and his stomach dropped. Neal was slumped on the floor, on his side and completely motionless. Behind him he heard Diana shouting to bring the Medics in, but Peter wasn’t going to wait. He holstered his gun and clambered around the crate to the prone man. Neal’s hair was black and stiff with blood and as Peter crouched down, he almost reflexed away as he touched him. Neal’s skin was clammy and as Peter turned him, rolling him onto his back in the hot air he bit back every swear and every ounce of roiling irrational anger ready to break through.

“Where are the Medics?” he shouted, glancing up to catch Diana’s worried look.

“They’re coming, Boss,” Diana murmured, but her gaze wasn’t on her superior, it was on the unconscious man in front of them, on the filthy shirt stuck to his skin and black with dried blood, on the white pallor of his skin and the near non existent rise of his chest. Diana stared down at Neal, and Peter tried damn hard not to, not to really take in the dark stream of clotted blood behind Neal’s ear and the clammy cold of his skin as he held his partner’s head. Four days, four days since he’d been dragged out of Peter’s car, and nearly four hours since Nikolai Volkov had left Neal to die.

Too little too late, Peter couldn’t help but think, praying he was damn wrong as he tried to hold onto the faint beat of Neal’s pulse under his own fingers.

There was a bustling rush of noise as the Medics entered the container and wove around Diana to get to where Peter was cradling Neal’s head in his lap.

“Help him,” he murmured as the girl in blue knelt down next to him. She looked at him with a sad solemn look in her eyes that Peter knew would haunt him just as much as the sight in front of him.

“We’ll do our best,” she said, moving closer and sliding her hand behind Neal’s head to take him off Peter.

“You’re going to have to move aside, sir,” she said and Peter nodded, extracting himself and trying to stop the irrational part of him that wanted to stay exactly where he was.

***

After nearly four days of watching her husband tear at himself day in day out, Elizabeth was dreading the moment when he’d call her, or look at her and she’d know that his searching had finally reached it’s end. A part of her was dreading it more than anything, because with every day that passed so too did her own hopes for Neal’s safe return.

Elizabeth was not a foolish woman; she knew the risks in Peter’s line of work. She’d made a point of knowing, of knowing more than Peter consciously wanted her to.

She’d known first hand the anxiety of knowing there was a possibility that their friend wouldn’t be returned to them, it had, after all, happened to Peter and there was nothing in the world that she wouldn’t have done to get him back.

Peter had been wearing himself thin trying to get to Neal, and Mozzie had been a wisp of smoke and still, Neal had been missing for four days.

With children, the first twenty four hours were critical. She didn’t have a clue if that was entirely different with criminal informants for the FBI, especially ones like Neal. Invaluable assets.

Turncoats, so to speak.

But twenty four hours had turned into 48 and before she knew it, 48 had turned into 93 and all of a sudden Jones was standing in the doorway of Burke Premier Events and Elizabeth’s heart was in her throat.

Standing up the facts and figures she’d been perusing to distract her addled brain disappeared in an instant.

“Tell me you found him,” she said. Jones looked pensive and in pain.

“They found him,” he replied. Elizabeth sighed with relief, reaching for her bag.  
“Where are they?”

She’d expected Jones to tell her a hospital. She’d had four days for her brain to remedy her to the fact Neal could not have escaped completely unharmed. Not given the way he was taken. What had been worse was that a small part of her had even been readying herself for the news Neal hadn’t made it at all.

For the small mercy she’d received knowing he was alive, it faded under the gravity of the situation all the same.

“Lenox Hill. He’s touch and go.”

“Peter?”

“Peter’s gone,” Jones said, wincing slightly as he held the door open for her, his other plastered arm lightly guarding his ribs. Elizabeth turned to face him.

“Gone? What do you mean _gone _?”__

 _“I wouldn’t want to be Nikolai Volkov right now,” Jones said wryly as he let the door swing closed._

 _***_

 _Diana had spent more time in hospitals than she was ever really willing to admit._

 _Between a mother with cancer dominating her early years and dating a Doctor in her later – there was a lot of hospital lobby loitering in the corners of her memory._

 _None of it had ever been like this._

 _This was a million times different and so much worse._

 _When her mother had been in and out of hospital Diana had been young enough to believe it was normal. It happened all the time, between check ups and chemotherapy and then in those last few weeks when her mother had been admitted – well, it had all been a part of her normal life and she’d been too young to remember the routine and the panic of it running in tandem. She’d been too young to really understand it all._

 _She understood it now. She understood the restlessness she’d witnessed time and again when she’d come to wait for Christie. She understood the real panic she’d seen in people’s eyes and the demanding results that came from the realization there was nothing anyone could do but wait._

 _She’d seen it in the old and the young, the families and the friends. She’d been to the hospital because of work before. With Peter, with fellow probies and then fellow agents and then with Peter again. She’d been admitted herself once, but even when Peter had been admitted after being poisoned – it had never been like this. This was panic wrapped up in desperation, tied with a bow of helplessness. This was a damn _vigil_ and it was entirely new to her and actually genuinely frightening. _

When her mother had died it had been at home, in her sleep. Diana had been eight. When Charlie had died it had been on the scene, against the wall, with Diana tucked under his arm, his body shielding her as she wrapped her arms around him. His blood had seeped out through his coat and onto her hands and the twinkle in his eye had shone as he’d murmured stupid Charlie-like jokes into her hair as he’d kept watch over her until he couldn’t anymore and then it had been her turn to keep watch over him.

Both times there had been no hope, no waiting, no chance of salvation; the time had come.

This was so damn different and so damn difficult and she’d never felt so useless in her life as she did now. Because Peter had told her to wait. Told her to look after Neal while he went rampant and determined to break Nikolai Volkov into pieces and have the Russian put himself back together while Peter watched. Diana had never seen revenge glinting in her bosses eyes the way it had for just a second while the slam of the ambulance doors still cut through the air and they stood and watched as Neal was rushed to the nearest Emergency room for the second time in six months. Diana had glanced at Peter and as the doors had closed on Neal she’d seen guilt and terror stare back at her and then a flash of anger so startling she’d been clueless to do any more than he’d asked.

As she’d slid into her car and asked herself whether obeying was the right thing to do, she’d argued it out in the time it had taken to drive from warehouse thirteen and out of the dock. Neal had been offered up like a prize, and while they’d only just got him back – there was nothing to suggest that taking him away for good wouldn’t be on the agenda either.

And so she’d went and here she was, trying not to pace up and down the waiting room, trying not to snap Mozzie’s fingers every time the small man sat down and started up his furious tapping or barking at him to sit down when the tapping was too little and he had started pacing.

There was nothing she or anyone could do, and so when Elizabeth stood up and asked the room if anyone else wanted coffee for the third time, Diana had murmured her assent with reasonable decorum and once again glanced at the clock. It had been over an hour since she’d got there herself. Elizabeth and Jones had arrived just after she had and bursting with annoyance at knowing nothing. Mozzie had arrived just after that, and been spouting statistics and horror stories about the health system almost the entire time.   
In all that time no one had got any information out of anyone.

But when Diana looked over towards the doorway where the doctor was standing with his clipboard under one arm and information written all over his face she knew the time had come where they were finally going to get something out of someone.

“Neal Caffrey?” the old man asked the room and the four of them perked up, either standing up or sitting in attention. The doctor nodded and walked closer, his face pensive.

“Yes?” Elizabeth asked and it was like she was the voice for everyone because Mozzie’s fell silent and Diana didn’t know if she was really quite the person to be asking about Neal. Not considering the company. Not between Elizabeth Burke who had a heart and a shoulder for just about everyone, and Mozzie, who had a vault full of Neal’s secrets and always kept his back.

“Let me start by just saying he’s stable. He’s incredibly lucky, but he’s stable,” the doctor said and Diana felt the four of them breathe a sigh of relief. The doctor continued.

Diana warily glanced her way. Neither Mozzie nor Elizabeth knew the circumstances of Neal’s rescue. She hadn’t been able to tell them and a part of her didn’t want the doctor to either. But she couldn’t stop them from hearing it.

“We had to take him straight up to surgery, where we repaired his spleen. He has some extensive bruising; several cracked ribs as well as a bad concussion that’s caused some swelling on the brain that we’re monitoring. We’ve got him sedated at the moment, give his body a little time to recuperate, take stock of itself. But we’re keeping a sharp eye on him and we’ll let you know if anything develops further.”

“But he’ll be okay?”

The doctor frowned. “He’s got this far on his own. He’s strong, so I’m cautiously optimistic,” he said solemnly.

“Is there any chance we can see him?” Elizabeth asked, perking up.

The Doctor sighed, like he’d known it was coming. He probably did. Did anyone in this sort of situation ever listen?

“He’s currently in post op but he’ll be moved through to ICU in the next few hours for monitoring, and I can let one in at a time then. But as I said, he’s sedated. I highly suggest you go home and get some rest yourself. It’s going to be a long few days.”

Elizabeth still looked pensive, Mozzie looked depreciative and Jones’ expression was grave. Diana stepped forward.

“Thankyou, Doctor. If I can have a word?”

Diana eyed Jones, who nodded. Mozzie’s gaze narrowed.

“It’s about his protection detail,” Diana said to the little man and Mozzie straightened his shoulders, and for a moment, Diana was sure she was about to be told that there was nothing the US Government could offer Neal that he couldn’t. In that moment, Diana’s ill guided affection for the small man made itself known again. There must have been something in her expression, because Mozzie backed down. He let Elizabeth rest a hand on his shoulder and guide him back to his seat.

Diana heard him say something about talking to June before she led the Doctor just outside into the hallway and out of their range.

“I’m Agent Berrigan, I’ll be in control of Neal Caffrey’s protection detail. I assume you were briefed?”

The Doctor nodded.

“The nurse passed on the information when he arrived. I believe that the ward has been informed of Mr Caffrey’s status already.”

Diana nodded. Good, she’d caused enough fuss when she arrived; she wasn’t really in the mood to do it again. Not now.

“Protocol dictates we have 24 hour visual range on Caffrey.”

“He’ll be moved into a private room in the ICU, Agent Berrigan. I’ll let you know as soon as everything is settled and have you taken down. Until then, I suggest you go back inside.”

“Thankyou, Doctor Regent. I’ll need names of any attending nurses as well. For security reasons. Anyone with access.”

“I’ll have the names brought down to you. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Diana let the man go, but she watched him all the way down the corridor. It was basic protocol. The hospital probably knew it already, but there was something in the genuine concern for a friend that had her genuinely anxious and desperate to know everything she could. It was a strange feeling. Considering everything that had happened over the last four years. Considering everything about to happen in the next few months. The end of parole. The end of Neal’s work with them - or perhaps the real beginning of working against him. Nothing had been decided, and that had been obvious in Neal’s expressions almost every day anyway.

But out of everything anyone had contemplated about what was going to happen when the tracker was officially removed… well, no one had ever thought that maybe Neal wouldn’t even reach that point.

No one had ever thought that maybe, working for the bureau would get him killed.  
Except maybe Mozzie, and there was a line between Mozzie being right and proving Mozzie right.

Conspiracy never looked good on anyone.

Diana took a deep breath and glanced back after the doctor, before she sighed and walked back into the waiting room.

***

 

Peter stared through the glass at Volkov. The man was wearing a smug smile on his face, his shoulders relaxed; he was completely at ease. A self-satisfied sort of calm, one that rarely came to a man in federal custody, especially one looking at being charged with art theft, forgery, attempted murder, kidnapping and assault as a starter sheet. Nicholai Volkov was a man who had known he was going to get caught and completely satisfied with the results he attained before he did.

Peter swallowed, hoping to swallow down his own anger but not quite managing it. It still twitched his fingers, itching to slam his hands on the table and demand to know what they did to Neal. Why they’d taken him. He was fighting his internal battle when he heard the door open and the careful paced steps of a man with authority.

“Peter,” hearing his bosses voice was enough to make Peter turn. Reese was staring at him with a dark sense of clout. Peter turned back to Volkov.

“He hasn’t moved since Ruiz left.”

“You haven’t been in yet?”

“No. I wanted to really see who he was first.”

Peter didn’t actually know how long he’d been staring at Nikolai Volkov. He didn’t know, and apart of him didn’t care. Time didn’t really matter anymore.

Figuring this out did.

Hughes was quiet a moment.

“I don’t want you in there, Peter.” Peter turned to look at the old man again; Hughes didn’t turn away.

“He'll only speak to me.”

“Which is exactly my problem. His damn intention is to gloat. We don't give in to the whims of fugitives.”

“He's a walk in, Reese, how can we hold him? Everything we have is circumstantial.”

“We have Caffrey, that's enough to keep him. That’s more than circumstantial, Peter. Kidnapping to start and assault as a follow up. As soon as Caffrey wakes up then we'll have his testimony and Volkov will go down with bricks tied to his ankles. We don't need to play his game. We played it once and we got Caffrey back. We won’t play again.”

“How long is it going to be before Neal wakes up, though? And he might not even remember anything. They hit him hard, Reese, we can't rely on him to make our case.”

And that was if Neal survived _at all._

Peter swallowed.

“He confessed to holding Caffrey, we found him where Volkov instructed, Peter. The case is fine; it's you I'm damn well worried about. The man will gloat; that's why he only wants to talk to you. He’s laid the groundwork by telling you were you could find the boy, and now he wants to gloat about what he's done to an audience who will give him the greatest satisfaction. Leave the interrogation to Ruiz.”

“You want to give this to _Ruiz_?”

“He's head of Organised Crime, Peter, and Nikolai Volkov falls into Organised Crime's jurisdiction.”

“I handed that file over six years ago.”

“And it was passed over, Peter. Leave it. I'm not letting you in that interrogation, and that’s final.”

“You can’t keep me off this.”

“I can and I will, Agent Burke.” Hughes breathed in deep and seemed to relax his stance. Peter looked away, back at the man in on the other side of the glass. Everything Reese had said was right – but it didn’t stop the thrumming desire running through him to punish Nikolai Volkov any way he could.

“Reese – “ Peter murmured, looking back at the older man. Hughes frowned again. But this time it was softer, edging with the compassion of a man hardened under the grindstone and put in charge of the people who had been his brethren. Reese Hughes understood. He was a friend.

“Don’t make me put you on leave, Peter. I will, and I’ll damn well put you through a psych eval as well if you push it any further. You should be damn well suspended and going through one right now if I was going by any sort of protocol.”

It was Peter’s turn to sigh, breathing out through his nose and trying to let the tension seep out of him. It didn’t work very well.

When Reese spoke again there was an edge of compassion in his voice and Peter let it sink through him.

“We have what we need, Peter. Now go back to Lenox Hill and see your damn partner.”

***

 

Mozzie was sure he was dreaming.

It was the only way he could rationalize this nightmare.

Beside him the heart monitor let out a short static run of loud beeping over the sound of the constant steady blip, but Neal didn’t stir and no one came in to check. It was just the two of them, and it was like being stuck in this giant sucking black hole of Government Suits and entrapment and Neal wasn’t getting out of it.

Nearly eight years ago Neal had disappeared into the clutches of the prison system, only to work his way from that prison into a four year work sentence with the bureau - that a year before his parole ended could have killed him. Now, six months later and four months shy of his freedom, they were back. Back to the same square, where his friend’s life was measured out in a steady blipping machine and the electronic rise and fall of the respirator, as air was forced into Neal’s intubated system.

Mozzie wasn’t very good at hospitals. He was good at waiting, but that patience all but disappeared out the door the moment he stepped foot inside. Hospitals made him uneasy, but there was no chance he could leave Neal behind. Not on his own. He was having a hard time entertaining the idea of letting the damn kid out of his sight. It was something that made Mozzie want to laugh, but he knew the sound would be bitter and he didn’t want Neal hearing that condescension. He didn’t need it. Not that he needed Mozzie hovering either, but they had to work with what they had.

Hope was, after all one of man’s great evils, as it prolonged the torments of man. Or So Nietzsche as said. Mozzie had never paid it much mind; he’d never had to rely on hope alone. Now, now he understood it worse than ever. They had got Neal back, but there was still the chance they could lose him again, and Mozzie was shy to even step outside the damn room now he’d entered it for the fear that his friend would disappear as if he’d never been found at all. Or worse still, he’d leave and Neal would find the chance to die on him just when they thought he was safe.

Mozzie glanced across the room at the large windows overseeing the room. The blinds were half open and he could see the shadow of Diana and Elizabeth outside. The Suits had told him Neal was going to be under 24hour supervision until they had this whole thing sorted, which even if Neal was awake, he knew his friend wouldn’t be happy about. He’d cock his head and look disgruntled and voice a useless rhetorical question like ‘Really?’ or ‘are you _sure_ this is necessary?’

Mozzie felt a pang of concern spike somewhere in his chest and he dragged his chair a little closer to the bed. He wasn’t going to hold Neal’s hand. He wasn’t that desperate for comfort yet. But he was going to stand watch (or sit and watch) for as long as was physically possible. Because as much as he trusted the Suits to keep their word and keep watch, they hadn’t done a very good job of keeping Neal safe so far.

And while Mozzie hadn’t really done a very good job himself, either; he sure as hell wasn’t going to let anything escape his notice now.

He’d been wearing glasses since he was found on the doorstep of a group home in 1969, but half blind or not, there was no room for being shortsighted now. Not when Neal needed them the most.

***

 

Peter did as he was told; he went back to Lenox Hill.

But he didn’t go back right away, and it didn’t force him to stay.

One look at Neal in ICU, Mozzie sitting in the chair to Neal’s immediate right, the fingers on his left hand tapping in continuous rhythm that seemed to echo through Peter’s skull even from outside the room was enough to enough to tell him he wasn’t needed.  
There was a mess of coffee cups on the little side table in various sizes and different companies that was enough to tell Peter Mozzie wasn’t the only one at the hospital.

“Agent Burke, I’m guessing?” Peter tensed as he turned towards the middle aged man tucking his ledger under one arm.

“Yes.”

“Your wife warned me you’d be here eventually. She’s waiting down the hall, in the visitor’s lounge. I don’t believe she’s alone either.”

“Thank you,” Peter eyed the man’s identification badge.

“Steven Regent,” the man said with a smile, saving Peter the trouble.

“How is he?” Peter asked, glancing back through the glass at Neal.

Doctor Regent sighed.

“He’s lucky, I have to tell you that, Agent Burke. He’s heavily sedated at the moment, which we’re going to maintain for a few days, give him some time to heal. But given the circumstances, he’s doing well.”

Peter nodded, trying to think of something to say. The doctor seemed to understand and sighed.

“You have friends down the hall, Agent Burke. I’m afraid we’re only allowing one visitor at a time, so you’ll have to wait until your friend is finished keeping watch before you see him yourself. I suggest joining the party and getting some coffee. If you’re intending to stay it’s going to be a long night.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Peter finally managed and the man offered him a smile.  
Peter continued to stare at Neal and Mozzie through the glass. Mozzie had tensed and looked up during Peter’s conversation with the doctor and the moment Peter met Mozzie’s gaze, he lost every intention he had of finding his wife and holding her close.  
As much as he needed that consolation, right at that second, he needed to fix this.  
He needed to know that Nikolai Volkov was going away.

He needed to know what they’d done to Neal.

***

In all the years that Mozzie had known Neal, the kid had been admitted four times. Once, when he’d broken his left wrist in Chicago, once after he’d pissed off Wilkes the first time and escaped with a minor stab wound. That had felt like an oxymoron; minor stab wound. He’d given Neal hell for that, and he’d deserved every moment of it. The third time was Peter Burke’s fault, the Thompson case had gone to hell and Neal wound up in the middle of it with emergency surgery and nearly three weeks off work that turned into minor house arrest.

And now this.

This was the second time Mozzie had to endure late nights under glaring hospital lighting and this painful pounding in his chest every time he looked at his prone friend. During the Thompson case Mozzie had come to realize how Neal had felt after he’d been shot. His friend’s dedicated mission and almost-betrayals to keep him out of harm’s way had made a lot of sense afterwards. Now, now it had happened again and everything Mozzie had been doing to keep him safe in the last six months had seemingly been for nothing, because here they were again. This time it was even worse.

Mozzie looked on from the hallway as the nurses prepped him. They were taking him down for an MRI, finally comfortable with how stable Neal’s vitals were and ready to check the extent of the damage the accident had really made. A part of Mozzie was angry they had taken this long for them to get to it. But he knew there was a process, and he understood they were working as hard as they could to save him. But he was anxious to know as much as he could, anxious that there was nothing he could do himself. He couldn’t even be out figuring why everything had happened, because for the first time he really was more comfortable with the Suit dealing with it. They had their mastermind, apparently. He was singing like a canary and Lady Suit was like a juggernaut in heeled boots and he knew they’d figure it all out. Mozzie had to stick around for Neal. There was a Baby Suit keeping watch a few seats down. There had been one there at all hours and Mozzie was thankful for Peter’s vigilance but it felt wrong now. The damage had already been done. Still, it was nice to have them there. If anything did go wrong there was at least one extra line of defense.

“How is he?” June’s voice was quiet as she came to a stop next to him and they watched as the nurses unhooked Neal’s IV drip and unlocked the wheels on his bed.

“They’re taking him up now,” Mozzie said. June had flown back as soon as he’d told her they’d found him and it was strangely calming to have her there. Like an extra soldier from the other side. There were too many Suits around; even Elizabeth was one of them, no matter how much Mozzie and Neal liked her. She was Peter’s wife, and her loyalty was always to him and with him, the law.

June on the other hand, was all theirs.

“He’ll be okay,” June said softly, her voice ringing with the conviction Mozzie needed. Because despite it all, despite the doctors calm assurances and his faith in his friend, he needed someone else to believe it too. Someone he could believe and hang on to. Someone who would tell him it was okay and who he could believe. Because without Neal… well, there was nothing Mozzie could imagine without Neal.

***

Peter was still awake when Elizabeth let herself inside near midnight.

Their house was silent and it was only when she set down her keys and looked up to find Peter leaning over their kitchen table, his files spilled out around the table and chairs that she realized he wasn’t at the office like she’d thought. Like she’d assumed when he hadn’t shown up at the hospital, and that had confused her.

A part of her had thought that Peter would be very much like Mozzie, and unable to tear himself away from keeping an eye on Neal. Trying to make sure he wouldn’t disappear again, even though there was nothing that Neal could do, pumped full of drugs and sleeping like the dead. He had been like that last time, wandering the hospital corridors with his hands on his hips and this faraway look in his eyes underlined by a crease in his brows. It had been bad last time, but it had been simpler somehow. Neal had been shot and then had been through surgery and they waited out his anesthetics and then it was a week of scheduled visits to stop him going mad or breaking himself out. This was worse. There were levels and there were complications both in apprehending those who had hurt him, and in healing. Neal had outdone himself this time and watching him had made her anxious, but she had been unable to leave. She’d needed to be there, as much for Mozzie as for Neal. And her husband. Only Peter hadn’t shown up this time. When 11pm had clicked over on her watch and Mozzie had emerged from Neal’s room after hours of attempted convincing, she had finally come to the conclusion Peter wasn’t going to show up.

Now she knew why.

Instead of bedside vigil, Peter was in a whole other gear. He was in vigilante mode instead; airtight, unbreakable-case mode. He was out for revenge the only way Peter knew how: proving a wrongdoing had been made and making them pay under the full weight of the law he upheld.

“Peter?” she called, pulling off her coat and setting it down on the couch as she walked over. Peter stood up straight and looked at her.

“You didn’t come to the hospital?” she asked, tentative. She wasn’t sure on his mood yet. She couldn’t tell how to approach this, not yet. First she had to test the water, and the best way to do that, was straight to the source of it.

Neal.

“I came by about three. He was sleeping. We’re missing something, El. We’re missing something huge.”

“How long have you been working, Hon?”

“Since I got back. Hughes wont let me talk to Volkov. He’s taken me off this.”  
Elizabeth sighed and took another step closer.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” she ventured. Peter turned back down to his files. Looking frustrated.

“I need to know, El. I need to know why.”

“Who did Hughes give it to?”

“Ruiz, Volkov’s operation is Organized Crime’s jurisdiction. There’s nothing I can do there.” Peter looked frustrated and annoyed and desperate and that’s when she saw her point of weakness. Her poor, poor man.

“Then maybe let Ruiz do his job,” she said softly.

“I can’t do that, El. I need to figure this out.”

She stepped closer.

“You need to get some sleep, is what I think.”

Peter sighed and turned to look at her. His eyes heavy and his mouth sloping down in a solemn frown. He was wilting.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see you at the hospital.”

“Why didn’t you stay?”

She knew the answer. Peter’s shoulders slumped. He looked forlorn, now. Scared. Angry.   
A million different emotions clambering for space over her husband’s tired and still bruised face.

“He would only tell me where Neal was. Ruiz had him for three hours and he’d only tell me.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing Ruiz is taking it from here. Honey, Neal needs you.”

“He needs this guy put to justice. He needs to wake up, El. He doesn’t need me standing around being useless in that place when I can help out here.”

“He doesn’t need you running yourself any more into the ground. You found him, Peter. That’s enough for now. Let Organized Crime take care of it from now. Please?”

It was the please that did it, of that she was sure. It was a word she barely used on her husband. They were independent enough not to ask permission, stable enough not to need desperation. This was a time of neither. Tonight she needed words like please, because as Elizabeth took those final steps across the room to wrap her arms around her husband and hold him to her tightly, she needed to feel his arms around her just as much as she needed to hold him.

In all their years of marriage, Neal Caffrey had - for reasons she still didn’t understand in the slightest - always been the greatest of their trials.

But she could not hold it against him, and strangely enough, for all his trials and tribulations he was also one of the best things to happen as well.

And now, he needed them.

***

Neal was by no means an easy man to beat. He had a mind like a super-computer and a body built to obey his every whim. He’d built himself up over the years and he loved nothing if not a challenge.

It seemed to fit so perfectly that the weakness to the man had always been his heart. Kate had been wrapped in that boy’s breast for more than a decade. The fact she was dead held nothing on that fact. Kate had been his weakness from the start, from the moment he laid eyes on her.

It still perplexed Mozzie somewhat, how attached Neal was to Peter. He liked the Suit; if in some wild universe Peter had been on their side he’d have loved the guy. But the world was as it was, and Neal had always had this strange weakness for the man who had chased him, caught him and spent the last three and a half years trying to tame him.  
And it seemed to have worked somewhat. Neal had, after all, decided to stay his term out, and that weakness in his wild and whimsical desires to own anything he fancied was enough to prove it.

Neal had embraced the Suit into a part of him that there was no escape. It had taken longer than it had for Kate, and for June. Mozzie knew the old woman was one reason keeping his friend tethered to New York, and that one Mozzie understood. He’d never had anyone he counted as family bar Neal and Mr Jeffries. No one he’d come across in his own adventures he’d like to keep until the end, except June.

And possibly Mrs Suit.

Okay, so he understood Neal’s attachment a little bit.

But he didn’t approve of it all in the slightest.

Because if Neal wasn’t so damn attached then they wouldn’t be here.

He wouldn’t be waiting it out until the nurses let him back into Neal’s private room so Mozzie could hover a little more and sate the anxiety tying his stomach in knots.  
If Neal hadn’t been so attached to the Suit he wouldn’t have been so conflicted in the last week and then, just maybe, he’d have been better equipped to breaking himself out.  
Or maybe they’d have been on an island beach they owned already, sipping mojito’s and playing Hypothetical Heist. (Or not-so Hypothetical Heist.)

Mozzie shook himself and glanced at the clock on the wall.

He knew he was being stupid and selfish, but he didn’t care. He just wanted his friend back.

It was late. Far too late.

He should go, but he didn’t really want to.

He glanced at the clock again.

It had been an hour since Elizabeth had left, since he’d been coaxed out of Neal’s rooms and told to go home. Since he’d said he would. He’d fully intended to lurk and sneak back in, but given the state of things, he should probably go home. There had been two Suits on Neal’s door anyway. Diana had made sure of it before she’d left. Mozzie had tried not to feel grateful for the extra security at the time, but now it was going to be a menace. Elizabeth Burke had the whole bureau under her thumb and had no likely informed the two of them to keep Mozzie out.

Neal would find that funny.

A small smile perked Mozzie’s lips for the briefest second and in the moment following he made up his mind, pushing himself wearily to his feet.

If he caught a taxi then September was only fifteen minutes South East…  
And that way, he’d be close enough to get to the hospital early enough to set up camp in that horrible chair again before anyone else.

Decision made, Mozzie headed towards the elevators.

***

Hughes hadn’t said it the day before, not directly, but Peter knew through implication alone that the man wasn’t expecting him in the office.

He wasn’t supposed to be there anyway. They’d called it significant circumstances that had allowed Peter back into the field to find Neal in the first place. To go back properly he knew he was going to need to be signed off by the resident doctor, and that was if he was lucky. He knew he was half a step away from being required to go through a series of long draining therapy sessions and psych evaluations before he was allowed back properly and that was something he was desperate to avoid. Even the one he was required to go through before he was cleared was going to be hell in high water and he wasn’t looking for anything that could prolong the torture of being able to do nothing.

Jones was going to have to go through hoop after hoop like a show dog before he was let back into the office, let alone the field. Hell, just the fact the man was walking around seemed like a miracle to Peter. It was nothing short of one.

Still, no matter which way Peter looked at it, as he sat at his kitchen table the next morning, staring aimlessly at the files spread out on every available surface, he couldn’t seem to figure out why everything had happened. Couldn’t make the connections, couldn’t see the paths.

And he didn’t see Ruiz turning up on his doorstep either.

That wasn’t something he’d been expecting at all.

“Ruiz,” he greeted, throwing the door open and walking back towards the kitchen. The man wasn’t someone Peter wanted to openly invite into his home, but he was clearly there with a reason and Peter wanted the high ground. They’d never got on, but this was beyond them. And apparently even Andre Ruiz could see that.

“Burke,” Ruiz said in greeting as he followed him into the kitchen. He didn’t say anything as he looked around, taking in the spread of files.

“You got a nice place, Petey.”

“There a reason you’re here, Ruiz?” he asked, keeping his tone even. There wasn’t much due reason for the animosity between them. Nothing important for Peter to keep holding a grudge on. No, these days it was more a lacking sense of respect for the other man that kept him cool. Ruiz was a dedicated agent, he cut corners occasionally and he had a mouth on him that needed wiring shut more often than not, but he got results as was required from him. He put the bad guys away, and given the nature of the world he worked in, Peter had to give it to him that every now and again, sometimes your hands couldn’t stay clean. Working with Neal had proved that.  
All the same, he didn’t really like Ruiz.

But the man was here, and he was working Neal’s case and Peter forced himself into a semblance of civility.

“We’ve been trying to talk to Volkov. Understand his motives and whatnot for the DA. He, er, well, he ain’t talking.”

“And this is my problem how?”

“See, he says he’ll only talk to you.”

“Hughes took me off the case. I can’t help you.” As much as I’d like to. As much as I’d like to crush the man - as much…

“I talked to Bancroft. He’s good with it. Seems to have some sort of soft spot for your pet con, Burke. Looks like you’re back on the job for the mean time.”

Peter stared at Ruiz, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the room.

“Not that you seem to have got off it – “ he said with that familiar hint of Ruiz-snark that was strangely comforting.

“He still in holding?”

“Refuses to move until he’s had a chat with you,” Ruiz shrugged and Peter reached for his coat.

El was back at the hospital with Mozzie and June, she wouldn’t miss him. Not for a few hours and he was half sure that she expected him to find a way back into the case regardless of what Hughes had said.

He had married a very smart woman, and he’d spent the better part of fifteen years trying to live up to her oh-so-high expectations of him. Be her Knight in Shining Armor as he’d promised her father all those years ago. To cherish her and keep her safe. He’d failed on more than one occasion, and the way she looked at him the night before, just staring at him with all that hurt in her eyes, he couldn’t stand seeing it again. He had to fix it. Finish it.  
For Elizabeth and for Neal.

***

In the hours Peter had been suspended, the bureau had moved Neal’s return from a hope into a fact across every page of the appropriate paperwork. The whole nightmare was written up in a case file, and worse still – the hospital had sent over pictures from their first exam.

“Neal Caffrey,” Peter said, laying them out across the table. The interrogation room was brightly lit and the images glared in front of him. His stomach turned over at the sight of each abrasion in full focus. Nikolai Volkov’s expression hadn’t changed since Peter had walked into the room. As he’d watched the man on the other side of the glass for a few moments prior the older man had been wearing an expression of intense disdain, like he was expecting Ruiz to try and break him yet again. When Peter had been the one to walk through the door Volkov had sat up a little straighter in his chair and Peter had seen this spark in his eyes that made Peter’s gut churn. This had been the man’s aim, to have them here, together and the worst thing was, it was exactly what Peter had spent the night thinking about. Sitting across from the man and forcing answers from between those smirking lips. All the same, he felt uneasy.

He pushed a photograph of Neal further across the desk.

“What did you do to him?”

Volkov took a moment to look at the pictures, folding his hands in front of him, the tips of his fingers touching the middle picture, an image of Neal’s lower back, black and blue with a jagged cut running around his side. He said nothing.

“Let me rephrase that, then,” Peter said. “Why did you take him?”

Volkov took his time before he looked up at Peter this time and met his eyes, a content look on his face.

“To help him.”

“To help him?”

Volkov smiled.

“You of all people should know what has happened to him, Agent Burke. You were, after all, the one who chased him the longest. Who caught him in the end? You out of anyone on this planet must be aware of how much has happened to that man. I simply helped him realize what he has become. What has and will happen to him and that it is your fault.”

He sat back, his handcuffs clinking as he moved. Peter stopped himself from slamming the table forward against him. That’s if the damn bolted thing would have moved anyway. But he could tell, by the look in the man’s eyes his insanity hadn’t finished yet. His reasoning hadn’t ended.

“I helped him Agent Burke, so he could teach you a lesson.”

A lesson. A favor and a lesson. Peter forced himself to swallow. He had almost been ready to laugh before. Crow about the man’s delusions, but by the smirk on Volkov’s face, he had known as much. It had all been leading to this. There was took much glee over the man’s expression.

“Teach me a lesson, what lesson? Why me?”

This seemed to be the question Volkov had been waiting for. The man leant forward, his handcuffs clinking on the table again, his expression suddenly fixed and there was a venom in his voice as he spoke this time that made Peter’s skin crawl.

“Because, Peter Burke, I wanted you to know the pain of having someone who once cared for you - and that you cared for - wince at every touch, regret their every moment in your presence. I wanted to show you that burn of shattered trust, to know that the person who once loved you fears you. Hates you, blames you and righteously so. Knows that you are the cause of their pain. I want you to know that, Agent Burke.”

Peter got to his feet. He needed to get out. He needed to get out before he did something he’d regret. His brain was buzzing. _I did it for you. I want you to know that. Fears you. Hates you. I did it for you._

But a single thought stopped him at the door, one hand on the handle, the air trapped in his lungs. He asked anyway.

“Why Neal?”

Volkov seemed to smile, like this was something he’d thought about saying for the entirety of his planning and Peter immediately wished he hadn’t asked, even before he had his answer. He knew it couldn’t possibly be a good one.

“Because, Agent Burke, one fierce woman has been broken in this torrid affair, and it would be a shame to break another.”

Peter felt the air leave his lungs in one effective gasp. But Volkov wasn’t finished.

“Do not worry, Agent Burke, your wife is safe. It's Neal Caffrey you should be worried about. I understand... he is not quite _himself_.”

Peter slammed the door behind him to the sound of Volkov’s echoing voice and his sneering smile calling after him.

“One, two three… check.”

***

When Samantha had finally been signed out that very last time with a donor kidney and the all clear, June had hoped beyond all doubt that the only person in her family she wanted to see in the inside of a hospital room in the next year was herself. There was no reason for anyone else to go near the place and all her midnight prayers went to that very cause, to keep her family safe and healthy.

It was the second time this year that June had found herself loitering in the doorway of Neal’s deserted loft finding herself wondering why on earth those prayers hadn’t gone as far as she’d thought. The boy had become family, and while her children may not have been completely happy with her renting out to a felon, there was no one in the world she could see living in her house except Neal. But once again, they were on the brink of losing him.

June let out a long sigh. Everything was exactly where he’d left it that morning before he’d been taken. The night he and Mozzie had asked her to go out of town for a few days and she hadn’t been able to resist the begging in those patent baby blues. She hadn’t been able to think that there was nothing he couldn’t overcome, that his request of her and Mozzie had been simple caution and nothing more.

How wrong she had been.

The suit jacket he’d been wearing when he’d wearily let himself in was still strung over the back of a chair, there was an empty glass still on the sink, a plate with toast crumbs right next to it. A scatter of files and scene photographs open on the table. There was a corner of his bed folded down like it had been caught as he’d breezed past and a discarded pencil sitting atop a small open sketchbook on his bedside dresser. Everything was exactly where he had left it, and it was like the poor boy haunted the place. It had been the same when his darling Kate had died. When there had been nothing for Peter to do to stop them putting him back away. The difference then had been that Neal had said goodbye. She had known he was leaving and so had the room.

This time, this time the room still expected him to come back. It expected him to finish the bottle of Bordeaux on the counter, expected him to send the jacket out for dry cleaning. Expected him to throw open the glass doors and wander out to stare longingly out at the Manhattan view.

The room expected him to return and so did June.

Taking a deep breath in she pottered over to the small wardrobe near his bed and set about filling a bag of familiar well-worn clothes. The boy was expected back, and she’d be damned if there was any talk otherwise.

***

 

Peter had left the house early that morning and Elizabeth had found herself following after him almost instinctively. Between Neal’s protection detail and the ongoing investigation, certain allowances had been involved, removing the curfew of normal visiting hours and she knew they had all been exploiting it. Mozzie had taken to lurking in the room as long as he could until June or El forced him out. There was an agent lurking outside during the day and two at night and it was a comfort as El bade her way through the door and into Neal’s private room. Neal was still as he was when she’d left the day before. His hands were still laid out beside him, his fingers limp and curling in just a little. The side of his face wasn’t as bruised as Peter’s was. There was a sharp cut hidden in his hairline and a scatter of smaller ones across the side of his face. He looked wrong against the backdrop of white and paisley green and pallid blue. Clear plastics and sharp clinical smells. Neal was black and blue, dark, sultry, suave. He was vibrant and he was darkness and he was spicy aftershave. His hair was in loose curls, smoothing out the lines in his face, the mask of perfection, of carefully played lies and half-truths. Neal was a performance, an artwork all his own and this place stripped him of it. It left him stripped of human function and it left this warm yearning in her gut as she settled into the chair by his bed. Mozzie hadn’t said a thing when she’d arrived, he’d simply met her at the door and he’d met her gaze as they’d passed and she’d rested her hand on his arm. He needed her almost as much as Neal did, but Neal was tearing at her.

Elizabeth leaned over and carefully brushed her hand through Neal’s hair, through the loose curls. He looked breakable and it was something she was still finding hard to accept. Even last time he hadn’t seemed this… wasted.

This stretched and vulnerable.

It was a thought that stuck with her far longer than she’d like, to the point where she wasn’t entirely ready to accept it for what it was when the Doctor came in and informed her that they were taking Neal off the sedatives and the ventilator.

He had come a long way.

Elizabeth couldn’t help but agreed once she was back in her position, holding his hand and watching the steady rise and fall of his chest an hour later.

He had come a long way.

He’d come a long way down, and there was so far to climb to get back where he was. So far to go when he’d only just got back up from before. It broke her heart a little.

As did the tiny unfocussed flickering of blue when he woke up for a moment and stared through her, his fingers tightening around hers as she stroked his hair and lulled him back to sleep again.

He’d only been awake for a moment, but it had been enough to spark a tiny flame of hope she’d been trying to keep alive for days and days.

And she’d held his hand then, and stroked his hair and murmured soft stories about Peter’s fumbling attentions over the years until he woke up for a second time for a little longer than before but no more coherent, and then she’d let the process began again.

***

The entire office was still walking on broken glass. Especially around Peter.   
Peter had barely left his office since his return mid yesterday and the rest of the office could feel the hostility the man was radiating for their suspect. Diana had never seen Peter so focused on getting someone for what they’d done. Even with Adler it hadn’t been, well, this _personal._

Ruiz at the very least had enough compassion to keep Volkov’s threat against Elizabeth to the agents who had been behind the glass while Peter was interrogating the other man. There were seven people in the entire White Collar division that knew Nikolai Volkov had constructed the entire thing to teach Peter a lesson, and if Peter had been determined to prove the whole thing before – it was nothing to how he was now.

There was nothing Hughes or she could do to stop him, and so they’d simply helped where they were needed and kept their own level heads, working through the processes to finalize Volkov’s charges before his arraignment. The worst part was confirming Volkov’s motive; his wife, Salina, had disappeared right after the man had gone to prison six years ago. There was no record of their split because there was no split. Not on paper, Salina hadn’t divorced Volkov, instead she chose to simply disappear. The woman was a ghost, but she seemed to have made quite an impression in her wake.

But while the man’s motive was the worst part, the impossible feat about processing Volkov was that this whole thing had been his end game. Everything they found was in all likelihood, exactly what the old man wanted them to find. This had been his revenge, and he had taken it out on Peter through Neal.

But as Diana had left the bureau an hour ago, Nikolai Volkov was being charged with kidnapping, assault and battery and attempted murder and the DA didn’t see any reason why Volkov was going to escape with anything less than the fullest brunt of the Justice System bearing down on him. But that didn’t seem to be enough for Peter.

Peter was trying to figure out what he could have done to stop it, and that was a question Diana knew there was no answer.

There never would be.

All the same, Neal’s security detail would continue until Volkov was put away and Neal woke up.

So here she was, relieving both June and Agent Fenley at just after four in the afternoon.

They had started to reduce the sedative Neal was on that morning, and he had been conscious briefly twice since his initial awakening that morning with Elizaebeth not nothing longer than a few moments of lost lucidity. All the same it had everyone relieved to hear. As soothing as the knowledge was that Neal was alive, that they had him back, the fact that he was still unconscious, even if it was at the doing of the hospital had been enough to keep them all in the same state of anxiety that had been going on since he disappeared.

Diana was sitting next to his bed, idly turning the pages on the book of poetry June had left behind when Doctor Regent was making his rounds. She rose to her feet as the old man walked in.

“Ah, Agent Berrigan, back again I see,” he said with a smile as he picked up Neal’s chart.  
“I hear you have your man in custody.”

“We do,” she said, watching him carefully. He must have felt her gaze on him because he looked up to meet her gaze.

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s beginning to respond a little better now, so it wont be long. He’s been awake twice since two o’clock, so I expect he’ll come around again quite soon.” Regent sighed and then dropped the chart to rest by his side. He fixed Diana with a hard look.

“All the same, I can’t recommend you try and interrogate him if he does. Your friend has been under a lot of stress, Agent Berrigan. His body has been put through a lot, and while we’re fixing his physical maladies, I’m afraid we have the easy job. The man who wakes up isn’t going to be the man you remember. He’s been through a lot. He’s going to need a friend more than he’s going to need an investigator. You can’t expect too much from him.”

“I understand Doctor. We just want him back, that’s all.” She said and it was almost a little unsettling how she felt the truth of her own words.

“Yes, you certainly are a pressing bunch,” Regent said wryly. “With your help, he’ll be back on his feet in no time. Before then, you’ll have to leave him to his own pace. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other patients to attend to.”

“Thank you, Doctor Regent,” Diana said, watching the man as he crossed the room. He paused in the doorway.

“As much as you are here to protect him, Agent, I am here to make sure he can still be protected. I understand you have a job to do, and your friend may provide valuable insight. But I really must press, when he does wake up, don’t stress him. If you do, I don’t care who you are; I’ll have you removed from the room. You can surveil from the hallway.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Diana said, remaining where she was until the man disappeared down the hallway and out of her sight. Authoritative bastard. Though, she had to admit, she kind of liked it. The man knew how to run his ward; that had to be a good sign.

She sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. It was only mid afternoon, but it had been a long few weeks and she needed the coffee. Eyeing Neal she glanced at the door and then back.

She’d be only a few minutes. Stopping at the nurses’ station, she informed the woman behind the desk where she was going and that no one should enter until she was back. It didn’t take long at all before she was though, bad coffee in each hand. She could use the caffeine and she’d long got used to cold coffee. It was foul, but the stuff hospitals and the bureau served was foul hot as well and it was a habit of hers to forget she’d made a cup and by the time she remembered it had gone cold.

Even if the stuff was cold by the time she drank it, it was one trip to the coffee machine she didn’t need to make.

When she got back to the room Neal hadn’t shifted, he was just as still as he had been, a body with a constant beep to remind them that he was still around.

Leaning against the door Diana watched silently for a moment, letting the tension sink out of her shoulders. Christie was around somewhere; three floors down, from memory. She finished at seven on Tuesdays and already the idea of finding her when seven came around and take her back home was palpable. Take her home and slide into bed and hold her close, feel the warmth of her skin and the rise and fall of her chest, curl her fingers in her hair and calm herself. The last few days had been far too hectic and after almost a full day of tension at the office, hunting down leads and chasing down proof – well all she wanted was to balance it out and then start again, and Christie had always been a little bit of a breath of fresh air, a rock, a hard place and a utopia all of her own.

Three hours, Diana decided, walking back into Neal’s room and settling in the chair by his bed.

Three hours and then she’d go home. Mozzie would get there about then, anyway. Neal wouldn’t be alone.

But of course, she never got quite that far.

It was nearly six when the regular beeping echoing from Neal’s monitor sped up and Diana glanced up to see Neal’s hands shifting over his stomach, his fingers twitching and his lips moving silently.

“Neal?” she murmured, standing up and leaning over him, one hand resting over his. The moment she touched him he tensed and she watched as he struggled to open his eyes.

“Come on, Neal,” she called, her heart pounding in her chest as she watched him flounder like a fish on dry land. She had never seen anyone so vulnerable.

“Caffrey, open your eyes for me,” she said, sounding gruff even to her own ears. She’d never had much of a bedside manner.

Neal made a sound in the back of his throat and he struggled to keep his eyelids open, but she finally caught sight of muted blue and a rush of relief ran through her. His gaze was unfocussed and drowsy but he was awake and alive and that was more than they’d had for over a week.

“There you go,” she said, smiling down at him. She reached out and held his hand and Neal made another sound in his throat. He looked confused.

“You’re in the hospital. You got taken. Do you remember that?”

The beep of his heart rate monitor went up and Diana glanced up at it.  
“You’re all right.”

Neal didn’t relax. If anything he seemed more panicked. She tried to meet his gaze, but when she did all she saw was confusion.

“Let me get a doctor, Neal, alright? I’ll be right back,” she said carefully, standing up slowly. There must have been something Neal saw as she rose to her feet because the beeping of his heart monitor went up again. In the end, Diana didn’t need to alert anyone in the hallway. Neal’s panic did that all on its own.

Doctor Regent was walking in before Diana could reach the doorway.

“I thought I told you not to panic him, Agent Berrigan,” Regent said stiffly as a pair of nurses outflanked him and moved to the bed.

“He just woke up. I barely had time to tell him where he was before he started to react.”

“He just woke up in a hospital, of course he’s going to react.”

“How are we doing, Mr Caffrey?” one of the nurses was asking as Diana turned around. Neal was staring between the two women on either side and the look on his face was gut wrenching. He was scared and confused and it was written all over his face. That fact was possibly the most alarming. It wasn’t that Neal was scared. It was that he was openly showing it.

Neal made that another sound in his throat and shifted his gaze between the nurses on either side a little quicker, like it was a shake of the head.

“Mr Caffrey, you were brought in a few days ago. You’ve been sedated while you healed. Agent Berrigan will be able to fill in some more details for you if you’re feeling a little confused,” Doctor Regent said, taking up Neal’s chart and moving around the bed towards Neal’s head.

“Now you took a bit of a blow to the head, Mr Caffrey, so I need you to tell me if you feel anything abnormal: confusion, loss of balance, nausea, memory loss. Anything at all, alright?”

Neal looked wildly from the old man to Diana and back. His eyes were wide, his mouth open.

“Wh- “ he gasped, the sound fading out before it could fully realize.

Diana took a step forward.

“He’s trying to say something,” she said and the attendants paused for a moment. Neal looked mollified.

“Wh - “ he tried again and this time they were all listening. Diana wasn’t at all ready for the question that escaped Neal’s mouth, nor the panic and confusion that was written all over his pallid face.

“Who’s Ne-al Caff-rey?” Neal gasped.

***

Peter knew there was something wrong a moment before his phone even rang. There was just a hesitant sense of foreboding tingling in his fingers as he sat up and frowned and before he could blink away the feeling, his cellphone started to buzz on the desk next to him. The damn thing was broken, it wasn’t even on silent.

Peter cautiously glanced at the ID before flipping it open.

Diana.

More importantly: _Neal._

“Peter,” Diana murmured, sounding urgent. Peter’s stomach made a drop for his shoes.

“Peter, you need to get down here.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Neal’s woke up again. Properly. We may have a problem.”

“What is it? Is he alright?”

“He’s… You have to see this for yourself.”

“I’m leaving now. I’ll be there in fifteen.” Peter all but snapped his phone in two as he closed it, shoving it in his pocket and checking for his keys in a determined reflex as he started walking around his desk.

He took the stairs two at a time and caught Jones at the bottom. The man still looked like he should be in the hospital himself, but considering the circumstances, Peter understood. Everyone was taking certain liberties the last few days. Besides, the man looked infinitely better than he had when Peter had seen him last, being escorted back downstairs by a very hesitant looking Blake with a box of pending cases to keep the other man from turning up at the bureau again.

“What’s wrong?” Jones asked as Peter walked past him. Peter paused by the doors. He owed Jones the truth as much as he knew. Jones was friends with Neal, too. But he just didn’t have the time.

“Neal’s awake. Something’s wrong.”

“Call me when you find out what!” Jones called after him as Peter pushed his way through the glass doors and pressed for the elevator.

 

***

Peter hung up and Diana let out the breath she was holding as she closed her own phone. Inside Neal’s room he was curled to one side and apparently once again sleeping.   
He looked like Neal. Their Neal. But he was different, even just in the manner of himself. The way he had held himself, the look in his eyes, and he hadn’t recognized her, which only added to the mounting concern she had that this wasn’t as much of a scam as her first instinct had been. But the Neal she knew wouldn’t have scammed her. The Neal she knew was, if she wasn’t too proud to admit it (which she never was) was a little bit scared of her. She liked it that way. After he’d had Alex break into her house all those years ago, she had been wary around him and over the years he had given her reason to be. It had become obvious that there weren’t any lengths he wouldn’t go to in order to get what he wanted, and it all depended on what that was that left any hint as to what the consequences could be.

But this, this was different. This time his disappearance hadn’t been his fault, this time he’d been beaten to an inch of his life and now he was semi-awake after nearly three days in a coma.

And he was claiming his name was George Danvary.

Which meant one of two things, they’d hit him hard enough he thought one of his aliases was his life, or they’d hit him hard enough that he couldn’t remember them and pulling George out of the back of his head had been some defense mechanism.

Either way, the look in his eyes as he’d got more and more agitated by their careful questions was enough to drag her careful relief he was awake back into the mounting fear that something was very, very wrong.

 

***

Peter watched through the glass as the Doctor sat with Neal, going through what seemed a comprehensive neural test. It was making Peter restless. He’d been at the hospital an hour and a half and in the entire time, he’d not been in the same room as a conscious Neal. The man had been sleeping once again when Peter had arrived, and now that he was awake the room was off bounds to all of them. Doctor Regent had holed up with Neal twenty minutes ago and forced them all to watch through the glass. Peter couldn’t hear a thing, but he could see the expressions both men were pulling. He could see Neal’s uncomfortable shifting; he could see his discomfort, his pain, and his uneasy confusion.

Over the years Neal had left Peter feeling a whole range of emotions that were unfamiliar to him and the uneasiness running through him currently was both familiar and not. Over the years Neal had put himself in so many stupid positions and left Peter fretting and running against the clock to protect him. Once already he’d been forced to accept that he’d failed in that regard, but this feeling was reminiscent of those moments he’d watched Neal when Thompson had shot him. He’d just been through four hours of surgery and was still out cold, but in those moments Peter had felt this completely alien surge of guilt running through him that he hadn’t protected Neal. That it had been his fault, which was a mixture of truth and irrationality he’d had a hard time diffusing. This was similar. While this time it hadn’t been a simple case of being too late to protect a brash idiot from himself, no, this time Neal was here solely because of Peter. He was injured because of something Peter had done while Neal was locked away in maximum security with Kate’s weekly visits as his only real link to the outside world. Peter had done his job, and that job had come back to bite Neal in the ass. Hard.

And Peter’s only glimmer of hope as he watched, was that no matter what they’d done to his friend, the fact was, it could have been Elizabeth, and he didn’t know what terrified him more. The fact it could have been Elizabeth tied up in that storage container, or that Neal might not remember everything they’d been through.

Either way, it all lead back to Peter.

Peter and a man’s bid for revenge, and Neal had paid the price.

Which left them here and now, where Neal was shaking his head at the Doctor and looking mildly petulant as he slumped tiredly against the pillows. He shook his head again and winced and Peter’s guilt flared up again.

Everything Neal was feeling was a message for Peter.

They were messages in mottled purple skin and the worst part, the lack of recognition in familiar vibrant blue eyes.

Peter knew if Neal still knew everything that had happened to him, there was a good chance he wouldn’t be alive. A small part of Peter knew if this situation was any different, Volkov would not have given Neal back to him.

This could not have been their aim.

But inadvertently they had given him something much worse. Neal’s second chance, his hard won, hard worked for second chance had been snatched away from him.

He was left without eight years worth of memories and friends and a hard expression on his doctor’s face as he left Neal’s room, closing the door distinctly behind him.

Inside the room, Neal rolled carefully on his side. Peter tore his gaze away and fixed it on Regent.

“What’s the diagnosis?” Peter asked quietly. Regent sighed and looked at Neal through the glass.

“I’m not certain, I’m waiting on a Specialist to make the final prognosis, but based on Neal’s results, Agent Burke, he’s suffering from Retrograde Amnesia. His procedural and semantic memory had a few inconsistencies but overall seem fine, which is not uncommon with RA. Neal’s condition is mainly restricted to his episodic memory. His life.”

His life.

“How much is missing?”

“Eight years.”

“ _Eight_ years?” Peter repeated, looking through the glass at Neal’s back. When he looked back at the doctor the man was frowning and following Peter’s gaze.

“When I asked if he knew what year it was his answer was 2005.”

“ _2005_?” Peter repeated, feeling the information sink in like a lead weight.

2005\. In two thousand and five, Peter had been with the Bureau for more than six years. He’d been married to Elizabeth for a little over four. Satchmo was still a puppy and Neal Caffrey was a world renowned fugitive with a flashy streak and according to Neal - a girlfriend on the run.

In two thousand and five they were enemies, Kate was beyond his reach, he was at the top of his game, and about six months away from being thrown in prison for the next four and a half years of his life, before Peter let him out on an electronic leash and at the risk of his entire career.

What a lot had changed in eight years.

Peter swallowed.

“And the issue with his name?” he croaked, eyeing Neal through the glass. He was still curled to his side, sleeping from the looks of it. Though he could have been faking. This Neal didn’t trust any of them, after all.

Regent sighed again and followed Peter’s gaze.

“That I believe isn’t quite what it appears. One of the other agents mentioned he was a conman?”

“Yes.”

“I’m guessing George Danvary was an alias. He wasn’t entirely forth coming, but he made it relatively clear he is more lucid than he appears. His reaction as he woke up is not entirely surprising. Everyone has their own reaction; Neal’s was an instinctual survival mechanism of his. Some patients get hostile. Other’s emotional. We’ve seen grown, bearded, aggressive men break down and cry like children as a way of coping with memory loss. It appears Mr Caffrey’s reaction is to lie. Which, given his circumstances, I’m not surprised.”

“His circumstances?”

“Neal thinks it’s 2005, Agent Burke, tell me what his life was like then.”

“He was – “ Peter stopped. Oh.

“He was being chased by the FBI.”

“And he wakes up and he’s in a hospital with the person next to him being an FBI agent. That would be reason enough to lie through your teeth, would it not?”

“So what do we do from now?”

“Well I think it’s best to give him a little bit of time to accept what’s going on. I’ve explained some of the circumstances, but I think it’s best that someone he knew and trusted eight years ago helps matters a little more personal. Having a familiar face help explain might be best for everyone. Especially given the change in employment.”

Peter nodded.

Mozzie.

He didn’t envy the other man. He didn’t know how he’d be able to explain Neal’s life to him if it had fallen on his shoulders. He’d been looking forward to the moment Neal woke up for the three days he’d been in a coma, but now that he had Peter couldn’t help but wish maybe he’d stayed under just a little bit longer if it meant he’d have woken up the same Neal they knew. If he’d woken up to look at Peter with a little bit of that trust, that little bit of familiarity and _not_ freak out wondering why the hell Burke wasn’t dragging him into the slammer.

That hadn’t been part of the deal.

Things hadn’t been following the rules a lot lately.

Neal had been keeping out of mischief, but that didn’t mean that just because _Neal_ had finally started listening to Peter about going off on his own meant that things didn’t manage to drag Neal off with them anyway.

“There is someone,” Peter said to the loitering doctor. Turning away from the window. He couldn’t look at his partner anymore. Couldn’t stand it.

“Then I suggest calling him in, Agent. There’s a lot to go through, and I think it would be best for Neal if he gets some form of closure soon. The situation isn’t helping matters in the slightest. Knowing why there are so many agents around will be a big help in his recovery. Now if you’ll excuse me, we’re trying to get in contact with a neural specialist to help consult and I need to check in with the nurses.”

Peter nodded and let the man go, watching as the doctor walked up the hall towards the nurse’s station. Peter sighed and cast one quick glance back at Neal. He hadn’t moved.

Peter closed his eyes and drew in a long breath.

Just when there had been some hope it was all going to be fine, the whole floor was swept out from under them.

For the first time since he was a child, Peter felt this creeping feeling swirling around in his stomach and in the back of his brain he heard a tiny voice crying out – this isn’t fair.

He opened his eyes and reached for his phone.

This wasn’t going to be pleasant.

***

Mozzie was furious.

Which was understandable at the very least, but it didn’t help matters in the slightest.

“You mean to tell me, Suit, that Neal’s expedition down the complete incompetency of the FBI protection detail has _wiped eight years off his memory_?”

Peter sighed. Mozzie was staring at him with an accusing glare just amplified by his glasses. Peter sighed again and braced himself, hands on his hips.

“Neal currently thinks he’s twenty five and claims his name is George Danvary.”

Peter watched as Mozzie’s very quick brain seemed to backtrack eight years and his expression of distrust turned to something a little nostalgic. Peter had thought George Danvary was an alias of Neal’s, but like a lot that Neal had done, he’d never been able to prove the two coexisted, let alone that George had done anything illegal. It had been almost Chinese Whispers about that alias. Someone said something they’d gotten off two other someone’s once removed and by the time Peter had even found the end of the spider web, Steve Tabernackle had shown up and he had a whole other spider to deal with.

“Neal always liked the name George,” Mozzie mused and Peter frowned at him. Mozzie no doubt had just revived memories of everything filed under George Danvary. Peter found himself caught between the relief that at least one person would be able to properly converse with Neal and not have him treat them as a mark or clam up and act up the façade as he had with Diana. The other part of him was both instinctively curious and infinitely wary. Neal was back to being Neal, and he had no recollection of anything that had happened. Prison, Kate, Adler, their friendship; all of it missing, and the Neal that was missing all that information had kept Peter on the run for three years.

“Oh I know, Danvary, Donnelly, Devore – “

“He’s only used Devore with you lot. Is he awake?” Mozzie was wearing the tiniest of smiles and it had Peter nervous.

“He was when I left.”

“Oh good.” Before Peter could say anything else Mozzie was walking towards the door.

***

Despite his impatient annoyance in front of Peter, Mozzie entered Neal’s hospital room with a sense of fear running through him potent and wild and making him jumpy, which in a round about sort of way seemed to make Mozzie more Mozzie. Neal grinned like a megawatt lamp when he rolled over, looking up warily and instead of someone he knew he had to play, he saw someone he recognized. The sight of his friend, a little wan, pale and exhaustedly slow in his movements was still a far sight better for Mozzie than the nightmare it had been of the past few days. Mozzie couldn’t help the little smile that perked his lips.

“I hope you’re here to break me out, Moz, there’s you know who wearing a god knows what in the hallway.”

Mozzie took a moment to revel in the sound of Neal’s voice as he used to hear it, this edge of relentless enthusiasm and insatiable lack of caution. Neal could get away with anything, because he was Neal.

Even when he _looked_ like a faint breeze would knock him over.

“I dealt with him. He’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.” Mozzie shrugged and pottered over to the seat by Neal’s bed. It was infinitely more comfortable now that the object of his attention was awake.

“Plenty of time to disappear then. Do you have a wheelchair in the hallway? Cause I think we’re going to be in need of a getaway vehicle, Moz.” Neal said, warily eyeing the closed door. The blinds were only half closed and Mozzie had no doubts Peter was just out of sight, watching them.

Still, he turned his full attention back to Neal. He still looked a right sight. He looked pasty and unstable but there was this old vibrancy in his eyes that made a pang of longing burst in Mozzie’s chest. This was who they used to be.

But it wasn’t who they were anymore.

And Neal was in no fit state to be moved. No matter how confident they used to be in patching themselves up, this was far beyond them.

He sat on the edge of his seat and made it obvious he was looking Neal up and down.

“Your impairment is duly noted, in fact, so much so I think all escape plans are on hold for the next few days.”

Neal frowned at him, a petulant sort of confusion more than a real frown. It was like the past coming back to haunt him. Neal honestly couldn’t understand why Mozzie was denying him something. That was the boy who had run halfway around the world like a hurricane, leaving a reputation in his wake Mozzie had never imagined when he’d decided that the kid who had managed to con him had to be worth more than Barlow.   
That pang of longing was back.

Neal’s frown kept on.

“Moz, you _do_ know who’s in the hallway, don’t you? That’s _Burke_. As in _FBI Special Agent Burke_.”

“I’m well aware of who was in the hallway ten minutes ago.”

“Well what are we going to do about it? I’m good enough to travel. You still have all your stuff at April, right? We can set up there, and move again in a few days.” Neal said, restlessly trying to sit up properly and making a sad effort of it. He wasn’t entirely coordinated and Mozzie wasn’t sure if that had anything to do with his meds or his injuries or the bump on his head that had thrown everything upside down, or a combination of them all. What was obvious was that helping Neal escape, no matter how tempting was a bad, bad idea.

“Neal, I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but you need to stay here,” Mozzie said carefully, standing up and trying to push Neal back as horizontal as his bed would allow. If anything Neal resisted even more.

“Mozzie, Peter Burke isn’t going to keep off throwing me in jail just because I keep wailing at the nurses and saying my name is George. And why am I even in here under Caffrey? Why is Burke even here? What the hell happened in the last eight years? What aren’t you telling me?”

Mozzie was still not even sure about that, even before Neal decided to wake up and make everything upside down by thinking he was still in his mid twenties and infallible. And it was down to him to explain it. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He tried again.

“You underwent a multitude of unfortunate circumstances, none of which I am able or willing to repeat in such a public setting.”

That was probably worse. He should have just said it. You work for the FBI.

Neal scowled and fell back against his pillows. His face was pale and Mozzie knew then perhaps they’d pushed it a little too far.

“Keep your secrets, Rainman, you have to tell me when we get out of here,” Neal said, eyeing Mozzie carefully.

Mozzie took a deep breath in.

“ _Time heals what reason cannot_ ; be patient, patient. I’ll break you out when you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now.”

“You are not, you wouldn’t be able to stand if you tried, invalid. I on the other hand, find no issue. Get some sleep, Neal.”

“It’s your fault if the Feds whisk me off in the night, Mozz. If I have to break out of prison I’m using your account to fund it,” Neal called as Mozzie cast him one last glance and pottered from the room.

Just as he thought, Burke was waiting just out of sight.

He was wearing an expression that Mozzie could only translate as ‘Well?’

“You were right, Suit. We may have a problem,” he murmured. Despite everything, this might be the opportunity of a lifetime; Neal couldn’t remember any of Peter’s tutorage and was in the prime of his career, but as easy as that could make the offer of a Nazi loot and a getaway plane far easier than it had in the last two years – at the same time, it didn’t feel right at all.

While watching the Suit panic could have its merits, Mozzie was just as anxious on the inside as Peter was openly showing as they both glanced back at Neal’s room.

The kid couldn’t remember eight years of his life.

And it was a big eight years, a lot had happened. A lot had changed.

And they were going to have to relive it with him, whether he remembered it eventually or not.

There were things that even eight years later, couldn’t be washed away so easily.  
Mozzie’s heart sank a little deeper.

They were in trouble.

 

***

Mozzie didn’t have time to revisit Neal before Regent returned with a trio of nurses following behind and a determined appointment with Neal and a CT scan that effectively took up the rest of their visiting hours and the nurses’ good faith.

Peter waited with Mozzie, just down the hall and out of sight as Neal’s bed was wheeled out of the room and towards the elevators before he bid the smaller man goodbye. Right at that moment, given the stress of everything he really needed to see Elizabeth, and given the state of his voicemail inbox as he bid Mozzie goodbye and went back to his car, Elizabeth was anxious to see him as well.

Peter took the shortest route home he could and let himself inside. El was waiting for him  
at the dining table. She stood up, ringing her hands quietly.

“Jones called me,” she said quietly as he dumped his coat on the rack and walked towards her.

“He said something had happened at the hospital. How is he?”

“He’s awake,” Peter said with a heavy sigh. El’s nervous wringing of her hands didn’t stop.

“Properly this time.”

“That’s good, right?”

“He has amnesia. He’s lost eight years of memories.”

Her expression weakened and she let out a sound, covering her mouth with a hand.

“Do they know why?” El asked and Peter sighed sinking down into the chair next to her. She sat down right after him and reached out to take his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“It could be a whole range of things. It could have been the accident. It could have been a combination of the accident and another blow to the head. Doctor Regent seems to think he was hit at least once more.”

Peter sighed and looked up at his wife.

El squeezed his hand again.

“Is there any chance he’ll remember?” she asked quietly.

Peter leant forward and leant against the table, maintaining his hold on El’s hand. He stared at their interwoven fingers for a moment before back up into El’s startling blue eyes.

“They don’t know. He seems strong, but he thinks that it’s 2005, El, he thinks he’s never been to prison and that I’m chasing him and that – “

Peter married a very smart woman.

“He thinks Kate’s still alive,” she said simply and Peter felt the weight on his shoulders crash down. He slumped.

“He doesn’t know any of it, and one of us is going to have to tell him.”

El gripped his hand tighter and stared at him, her eyes wide and unwavering.

“He needs to know, Peter. If you tell him the truth, he’ll understand. But you have to tell him.”

“I know,” Peter said, closing his eyes for a moment.

“You’re a good man, Peter Burke. It’ll cause more harm in the long term than if you tell him now.”

“It doesn’t help though.”

“You feel guilty?”

“It’s my fault Volkov came after him.”

“It’s not your fault, Peter,” she spoke fiercely and her hand in his was warm and trusting and Peter held on for a moment. She didn’t know it could have been her and Peter couldn’t find it in himself to tell her. He just couldn’t. She was too precious and even the idea of this being her… he couldn’t stand it. He held her hand a little firmer and just lost himself in her desperately large blue eyes.

El smiled softly and with her free hand she reached out to press it against the side of his face still mottled with bruises he no longer really felt. She held it there, fragile and warm.

“It’s that man’s fault and he’s back where he belongs where he can’t hurt us anymore.”

Peter nodded, not trusting himself to open his mouth to say anything else.

Unfortunately his phone took that moment to buzz in his pocket. He tried to ignore it but El was already leaning back. Pulling her hand away from his face and for a moment Peter felt bereft.

“You should answer that, sweetie. It could be important,” she said eyeing his pocket.

Peter nodded and fumbled in his jacket for the phone.

His concern spiked in an instant as Diana’s number flashed onscreen.

Realistically Peter should have known to keep himself on his toes. He should have pressed Mozzie for everything that he’d told the younger man. Should have thought it through properly. Should have known that without that explanation Neal needed immediately he wasn’t going to stay still, he wasn’t going to behave. Not when he had no idea of the circumstances of his waking up. He didn’t understand what had happened in the gap he couldn’t remember, and therefore all his hesitancy about the FBI and Peter were based on old merits and with those sorts of merits… it was only really a matter of time before it happened. Without that vital explanation, Neal wasn’t going to stick around if he could help it, and despite three days under sedation, cracked ribs and a recent operation for a torn spleen – Neal Caffrey was, apparently, still very capable of disappearing.

This time, even without the help of Mozzie.

***

He couldn’t remember.

The hardest part was that everything felt normal. It felt like there was nothing wrong, except all over the place things most definitely _were_. The technology was smaller, sleeker, more popular. Everyone had headphones in when Neal reached the street. Everyone had phones. Everyone was wearing clothes that were just that little bit different to how Neal remembered they should be. Eight years was a long time. It was a different decade to the one he remembered. Things were similar but they weren’t the _same_ and that’s the thing. He’s out of place. He doesn’t belong, and while he had made a career out of pretending he does, this time he can’t quite get a handle on it as well as he’d like.

He wasn’t drawing too much attention to himself in the scrubs he’d stolen thank god, hidden under another poor bloke’s jacket. But as if to make up for that, he was already exhausted by the time he made it to the street and there was still a way to go. He didn’t even know if Mozzie’s old safe houses were even going to be safe anymore. Or available. They could – for all intents and purposes – be filled with other people, families or single businessmen or full of boxes, like storage units were meant to be furnished.

He didn’t have a clue and it’s a little bit alienating, but at the same time, it was soothing that he could still hail a cab no matter where he was, and he could still prattle off a reasonably easy story to believe as he told the driver an address and hoped that he’d be in luck. It wasn’t hard, it was like riding a bike and while he was tired, weak and sore and the throbbing in his head and his abdomen growing stronger as time wore on, he still knew the spiel and he knows he’s still good at it and he knows that there’s nothing else wrong. Not that being unable to remember eight years of his life isn’t something particularly alarming and wrong in every way imaginable. But it is somewhat soothing that he can still talk and smile and con like all he did was go to sleep eight years ago and woke up in the future. He doesn’t feel… broken.

Which is nice.

What isn’t nice is the way his stomach lurched as the cabbie turned too quickly, or how he slumped back against the seat and had to close his eyes because his vision was taking turns to blur out at the edges or swim rather violently as he tried to keep his eyes open. He should have stayed at the hospital, he knew that much now. He knows it deep in his gut that he should have trusted Mozzie; that Moz would have his reasons for Neal being there. For _being_ Neal. For the Feds. For staying. Moz always had some sort of reason.

He’d be able to tell him why Kate wasn’t there. Surely after eight years he’d have found her.

Neal’s stomach made an anxious roil as he sat up, the thought floating unbidden to the forefront of his mind. Maybe the Feds had Kate, maybe that was why they were there waiting for him. Why Kate wasn’t there. Or maybe, maybe he’d never got her back; maybe she’d left him such a damn long time ago. Maybe he’d been running so long that he’d given up and let Burke catch him, maybe that’s why the fed was there.

And that was all in the space of why he’d woken up with a fed beside him. A fed who he didn’t recognize, but who certainly seemed to recognize him.

She was pretty. No, pretty wasn’t the word. She was bossy, determined. Gorgeous. That was a better word. And uninterested. He knew that much just from looking at her. But he wasn’t sure as he remembered her face whether it had been instinct upon waiting or something else, something half remembered. Neal frowned and glanced out the window at Manhattan moving past him.

It had been a long time since he’d seen the view running past him and at that thought Neal _had_ to frown. In his own head, the head that made sense and felt real he’d been out this way only two days ago. They hadn’t gone to the Island because they never did. The Island was just that, cut off from any other place unless they were free or desperate. The Island was Mozzie’s paranoic pride and joy.

And it was a lot further away from Lenox Hill than he remembered. Not that he made a point of arranging safe houses near hospitals. That could probably be of use though. Maybe Mozzie had already thought of that somehow. Maybe he had somewhere he hadn’t told Neal about close to Bellevue or something. Neal scrunched his eyes closed for a moment and pushed himself upright again, watching the world go blurring past again.  
He hoped that the drive ended soon. He wasn’t feeling his best and at that moment there seemed like nothing better in the world than somewhere that wasn’t moving in any way. Neal closed his eyes again and winced. His body was pulsing now, beating louder and louder.

“How much longer?”

He heard a voice rasp and it took him a moment to realize his mouth had opened and vomited out the question revolving around in his head.

“Couple of blocks. Not long,” the driver answered and Neal murmured his thanks, leaning back against the seat and bracing himself against the window.

He needed drugs. Drugs and somewhere not moving and a damn burner phone so he could call Mozzie and figure out what the hell had happened. Because there was obviously something massive they weren’t telling him. There was so much missing in that eight year gap, but Neal could feel something huge hanging over Mozzie’s head. There had to be, otherwise Moz would have just said. Your parachute didn’t open, you landed on your head, Alex hit you with a wrench, Wilkes ran you over, Keller’s gone mental, you got shot – something. Mozzie would have said _something_.

He just had to find out what it was he _hadn’t_ said.

That, and stop the world spinning. He needed it to stop spinning and he needed his damn eyelids to not feel like they were packed with cement and he needed to find out about Kate and Burke and why he couldn’t remember.

He needed to –   
He needed.

“We’re here, buddy.”

He needed… to pay the driver.

***

Peter knew there was no use blaming anyone.

He was very much aware of the fact that when Neal Caffrey wanted to disappear, he did. He could cook up the biggest stupidest plans for the smallest reasons. He would con the entire FBI for a five minute conversation that could get him nowhere. He would buy a bakery so he could construct an awning on the side of a building. He would get himself arrested for the risk of seeing his missing girlfriend.

Neal managed grand feats for the simplest reasons, there was little stopping him when his reasons were anything but simple, and in Neal’s view, this was a very complex situation indeed.

And he wasn’t wrong.

“How on earth can a man who has been in a coma for three days and has four broken ribs get past two fully trained FBI agents and the entire hospital staff in a hospital gown? How? How is that possible?”

The group of milling agents who had meant to be looking after Neal, shuffled awkwardly and looked suitably abashed. All the same, Peter was fuming.

“I want you all back at the office at eight am. We pick this up first thing.”  
They all nodded and guiltily disbanded. Peter watched them go, still fuming.

Peter knew it was a useless tirade, but he needed someone to berate, someone to take this anger out on, because he could barely stand keeping it in any more. Neal was gone, the Neal he remembered and liked and damn well spent every day with. The Neal he would take a damn bullet for if it meant sparing him one, was damn well gone and it was all Peter’s fault.

It was Nikolai Volkov’s doing.

But it was Peter’s fault it had happened.

Volkov had been trying to punish him, and he’d done it by attacking Neal, and now Neal was gone. Neal had disappeared out of the hospital before Peter had even been able to accept that he was still alive. He’d woken up and erased everything they’d been through together and left Peter the Bad Guy, the Good Cop out to put the Dashing Theif behind bars again and he almost wasn’t wrong.

Peter was half incensed to put Neal back in prison if it meant he could stop anything else happening to him. Solitary Confinement. No visitors.

And he’d do it if it meant keeping Neal safe.

Except Neal wasn’t safe, he was missing and he was Neal.

He was the Neal of eight years ago. The Neal who stole a Raphael to try and get his girlfriends attention, who screwed over Ryan Wilkes for half a million and a hatred of guns, who ran a scheme with fake gems worth over four million dollars. This was the Neal Caffrey they taught about in criminology class. And he was injured and in pain and couldn’t remember a single thing about how far his loyalties had turned and therefore he was expecting none of the ramifications.

He was as vulnerable as Neal had ever been in his life.

“Tell me what’s' going on to change this situation?” he asked, still annoyed. Diana didn’t look pleased herself.

“It looks like he snuck into the lockers and swapped his clothes. Morrison’s pulling footage of the front doors. I’m guessing he hailed a cab.”

“Given the state of him he wouldn’t be walking,” Peter scowled, reaching into his pocket for his phone. Mozzie hadn’t picked up when Peter had called, but as he’d been halfway to the hospital he’d received a text message saying he was on his way. Peter was still waiting.

“If he hailed a taxi I’ll see if we can pull traffic logs and see where he went,” Diana said. She looked tired. She needed a break. They all did.

Dammit Neal.  
One night, could they not have had one night?

“Good. I’ll check with the little guy. Hopefully he’ll be able to tell us if he’s got a damn safe house Neal would go to.”

“We could answer all those questions before we caught him with this, boss,” Diana said, her voice edged with an attempt to be humorous, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes and Peter nodded.

“Might be able to close a few of those cases, too. Look out James Bonds, the FBI knows all about you.”

Diana barely had time to snort derisively before Peter’s phone buzzed.

Mozzie.

Was outside.

Peter fumed and glanced at Diana.

“I’ll be back,” Diana nodded.

“I’m going to head to the office, get an early start on those tapes.”

“I’ll let you know if the little guy has anything,” Peter said and Diana nodded, the pair of them heading for the elevator together.

Mozzie was waiting near the ambulance bay. Peter wanted to throttle him. Was now really the time to start getting all up in his habits again?

“Has he contacted you?” he asked pointedly the moment he had the man in his sights. Mozzie looked a little annoyed himself.

“Would I be here if he had, Suit?” Mozzie scowled.

“Where is he, Mozzie?” Peter pressed. Mozzie watched as the lines on Peter’s face became more pronounced and there was this fierce glint in his eyes that was a little disarming. This was the man who chased criminals, who caught them.

“I’m telling you, Suit, he hasn’t contacted me.”

“And if he did, would you be telling me?”

“Given the circumstances, Suit, I want him back just as much as you do. He needs to know the mess working for you has got him into.”

“That’s not an answer Mozzie. If anything that sounds like you’re planning on warning him and disappearing for good.”

“You’re paranoid.”

“Tell me you haven’t thought about it, Haversham.”

“I’m not going to acknowledge your ridiculous accusations.”

“At six o’clock, Mozzie, Neal woke up not remembering a damn thing. It’s three am, and he’s gone. Now tell me, he can’t remember ever working for me, tell me that’s not tempting to make him cut and run. He’s not wearing the anklet.”

“He hasn’t contacted me, Suit. Given the state of him, you should have the NYPD out on the beat looking for him. He’s probably unconscious on the side of the road.”

Peter hated the way his body flinched at the idea. Please God, please don’t let that be true…

“You’re telling me, Mozzie, that Neal broke out and he didn’t tell you.”

“Considering I didn’t tell him he’s working for you, Suit, he’s not exactly open to trusting openly. I told him I wouldn’t help him escape, so he did it on his own.”

“You didn’t help him with this?”

“I’m a criminal, Suit, I’m not stupid. He could barely stand. He could barely stay awake.”  
“Then where would he go, Mozzie?”

“Somewhere safe. We had this little place, back when – “

Mozzie didn’t get any further, there was a faint buzzing and the small man stopped talking to reach for his phone. The look on his face as he looked at the ID was almost priceless. Peter didn’t see what the screen said, but the light in Mozzie’s eyes as he looked up at him said enough.

“It’s Neal,” Havernsham said without needing to. Peter closed his mouth, watching as Mozzie answered the phone.

“Neal?”

“ _Mozzie_?” Neal’s voice was faint in the cool night air. Peter could barely hear it as Mozzie held the phone to his ear. But Peter could. Just.

It was stupidly relieving. He couldn’t quite remove the image of Neal slumped in the gutter somewhere, eerily, terrifyingly reminiscent of seeing him in that damn storage container…

“Neal, where are you? You should be still in the hospital.”

“ _I had to get out, too much going on. Why was I there under my own name? Who brought the Feds in, Moz? What isn’t anyone telling me?_ ”

Mozzie looked warily at Peter then before he looked away pointedly and started speaking again.

“These are all valid questions that can be answered in good time, mon frère, if you tell me where you are.”

“ _What's going on, Mozzie_?” Neal sounded confused. Almost… childlike. There was a simplicity to his question that was a little alarming. Peter wanted to touch him in that moment more than was really necessary. Just touch him so he was sure the damn kid was breathing and at least a little bit sane. That he knew who he was.

Was that too much to ask? To just have Neal back? The way he was, the Neal who trusted him implicitly, who smiled and laughed and worked with him. Was it too much to ask to have his partner back?

And then he looked at Mozzie, and the realization hit him like a bolt of lightning.

Could Mozzie be asking the same thing? Wasn’t this like the world giving Mozzie back his partner? The Neal who had belonged to Mozzie and Kate and had never thought about working for the FBI. Who had teased and taunted Peter and run any risk and any con the pair (or three of them) could think of. Wasn’t this like offering Mozzie his parner back without reproach?

Peter swallowed, his throat tight. He stared at Mozzie on the phone, at the link between the con and their friend. The compassion. This was the man who had spent every waking moment with Neal, hoping for him to wake up. The man who had come whenever Neal called; who had stuck by him. Who had searched for him and then waited so diligently for him to wake up while Peter was off fighting battles with his own guilt.

What was going on?

Such a simple question, such a complex answer.

What would Mozzie tell him?

Mozzie’s eyes flickered nervously up to Peter. The moment they connected Mozzie looked away again, his expression tight.

“I'll tell you if you tell me where you are, Neal. If you're not careful you're going to bust a lung. Then what are we going to do?”

“ _I'm alright Mozz._ ”

That sentiment.  
I’m alright.

How often had Peter heard that phrase?  
After Kate?

After Sara.

After Thompson.

I’m alright.

Neal’s hands trembling and he couldn’t make them stop. His gaze distant, clouded in pain.

I’m alright.

Peter snapped.

“You're not alri-“ Mozzie was saying but Peter couldn’t stop himself. Couldn’t stay quiet any longer.

***

“Give it here.” Peter interrupted, motioning for the phone. His expression grieving and tight.

Mozzie's heart sank.

“ _Is that?_ ' Neal asked, while Peter motioned for the phone again, his hand outstretched.

“Pass it here.”

“ _You_ knarked _Mozzie_?” Neal asked, and he sounded hurt more than outraged, but the sentiment was there all the same, echoing in the back of his voice. Then before Mozzie could say a thing, or Peter could yank the phone out of his grasp, all he could hear was the dial tone as Neal hung up on him.

***

Neal’s brain felt thick and fuzzy and his limbs were heavy as he eyed the phone on the opposite couch where he’d tossed it. All he really wanted to do was lay down and sleep. Take a few pills for the thumping pain running through him that was beginning to sharpen the longer he was on his feet. He was tired.

But beyond the pain there was a slow burning anger in his gut and it kept him on his feet.

Mozzie.

Mozzie and Burke.

What the hell had been going on these past years?

Neal shuffled across the room towards where he’d dumped the stolen coat he’d come with. The Island had been well cared for over the years. It was just as it had always been and that alone had been strangely warming. It was familiar and soothing where everything else felt turbulent.

He couldn’t remember and he’d never felt so damn alone in his life.

Mozzie was with Peter Burke, and he wouldn’t tell Neal what was going on and where the hell was Kate?

Neal winced and had to take pause against the wall for a moment as the world swayed.   
As much as he wanted to crash, to just slump down on the couch and let them find him, he couldn’t. He had to go, find somewhere where he could rest, somewhere close. Somewhere safe, where Burke couldn’t find him, because Burke would be looking. Burke had always been looking.

Neal took a deep breath in and glanced silently back at the apartment. He’d been so sure he’d be safe here, but it seemed these days, even The Island wasn’t as safe as it once could have been.

***

The Bureau was all but deserted now, bar the agents who had been at the hospital supposedly guarding Neal, and the few she’d called in. It was quiet. After all, it was stupidly early. Everyone was meant to be asleep. Trust it to Neal to go missing in the middle of the night. Regardless of the movement as they all tried to pull up everything they could on the hospital and the case and Neal it was still much less of a minefield of movement than when Diana had called past about eight. The fact that Neal Caffrey was not only back, but awake had been a relief to most of the floor.

None of them knew the real complications of that waking up. Just the annoyance that he’d upped and disappeared.

But as hesitant as most of them had been some three and a half years ago, Neal had earned his place amongst them and the news of his recovery and subsequent disappearance again had spread throughout the office. It was uplifting and disappointing in turn. But they were nothing if not a community and Diana couldn’t help the tiny smile that broke through as she took pause in front of the white board in the break room.

There was a betting pool on the whiteboard, in true white collar style.

There’d been a betting pool when Kirsty had her baby, one for the sex and subsequent name, one for the date and just for kicks, one for the father. Jones had won out in the first one, Neal had won the second. Kirsty had smacked the pair of them when they owned up to running the third, but forgiven them when it was clear Neal’s winnings had gone into the rather expensive capsule full of knick knacks delivered to her room. They’d run a betting pool when Hughes had announced he was going to retire twelve months ago, Peter had won that. Hughes hadn’t lasted three weeks before he retracted the request. When Blake had started acting quiet there had been a betting pool guessing his secret. Girlfriend had been the obvious choice, Jones had been outlandish and called that he was dating twins. It had been Neal once again who had figured it all out and put an end to it quietly when he realized there was more to Blake’s quiet stretches than just a secret girlfriend. When the young agent had to take a week’s leave when his niece passed away, no one said a word about the betting pool, but no one asked for their money back either and Diana heard Blake thanking Neal quietly after his return for the bouquet he’d sent on behalf of the office and the accompanying cheque for their donation to cancer research.

There had been bets placed on everything and anything over the years, and it made so much sense to see it pinned to the board.

Peter catching Neal the favored bet.

Neal turning himself in, running a close second.

Neal breaking out to go get Pizza a completely outlandish third option.

 

Diana stared at the board and sighed, clutching her coffee mug to her. She glanced across the bull pen and up into the conference room. Blake was leaning up against the table staring at the screen intently. Diana poured a second cup and headed up the stairs.

“I think I know the last bits of the heist,” Blake said quietly as Diana sat down next to him and she couldn’t help the rush of relief that ran through her. Because as good as it felt knowing that they already had Volkov, there were still pieces missing and Diana wanted it all flush. She wanted to know everything.

And this was one step further towards obtaining that.

And she needed good news. There had been too much bad. Far too much.

“It was all to do with the wife,” Blake said as Diana stared up at the screen.  
Blake clicked the remote.

“She disappeared after Peter arrested Volkov the first time for smuggling. Volkov never saw her again. When he went inside, Salina’s brother, Alexander Restovin took over the business. He laid low, slowly building the business back up. When Volkov gets out, his men aren’t loyal to him anymore. But they are to the business. He makes a deal with Restovin. Restovin gives him the resources he needs in exchange for an addition to his private and increasingly illegal collection of Russian art. Including, several already by Kandinsky.”

“But why the forgery and then the robbery?”

“The robbery came first. It was switched before it even entered the gallery. Restovin had it since the tenth. Mandy Brenner had been painting reproductions of all the works coming through the gallery as practice. Apparently when Luccson came in to case the place, they were talking about it. He bought her reproduction that afternoon. Based on the encrypted transcript Forensics sent up, Luccson traced the painting back to its owner and swapped them out in transit. The gallery owner never realized it was a fake he unpacked in the first place. Based on that info and what Mandy Brenner told us, we traced Volkov’s private muscle, Ivan Korvesky to an exchange with Restovin on the eleventh, where we found footage across the road of Korvesky dropping off an art folder to Restovin’s private luncheon at café Trevane. Organized Crime’s had the place under surveillance for weeks. Agent Martin showed me the footage last night.”

“And there we have it,” Diana murmured, staring at the screen.

She stared at the image of Korvesky on the screen in front of her. Tall, broadbuilt, Russian, with a tattoo climbing up the side of his neck. There was their driver of the SUV.

A part of her settled.

They had them.

Volkov had set the entire thing up. He’d needed art to pay his brother in law for his revenge plot and had used a hacker looking to get himself a better rep to do it. From there, he’d sent Peter and Neal the threats and then used his hired muscle to take Neal.

It was all wrapped up, the artworks, the notes, Luccson, the SUV and Neal.

They didn’t need anything else to convict anyone else they could lay their hands on.  
With this sort of info, all they needed to do was find Korvesky and put him away and they were fine. The evidence spoke for itself.

Which was lucky, because Volkov wasn’t willing to say a thing, and Peter refused to talk to the man again regardless. That’s if Hughes would even have let him on the same floor as the man. That part was off limits, and given Neal’s state – well, it was hidden there as well. They simply wouldn’t know what had happened in those four days.  
And a part of her was content for it to stay that way.

Diana continued to stare at the screen. She was hesitant to say it, but she could almost feel some of the weight starting to lift. Almost.

They had Volkov, they would find Korvesky and they would get Neal back, memories and all. They would.

Diana reached for her phone and punched in a text and Jones’ number. The poor bastard had been texting her daily for updates. He’d love this.

TEXT MESSAGE  
Send To: JONES  
Time: 06:25 .  
Jones, just thought   
I’d let you know.   
We’ve ID’d the   
driver. Ivan Korevsky.

She wasn’t expecting a reply. Not at six am when he was supposed to be on leave.

All the same, her phone was beeping in reply before she could even set it down.

 **TEXT MESSAGE**  
Sender: JONES  
Time: 06:27 .

Excellent.

Diana smiled.

 **TEXT MESSAGE**  
Send To: JONES  
Time: 06:28 .  
He wont know   
What’s about to   
hit him.

She punched in her reply, feeling a little more vindictive than felt normal.

But then again, this had not been a normal case.

***

The Suit was an arse.

But he was smart enough, and he had a brilliant wife.

And his dog wasn’t bad either.

But he certainly wasn’t in Mozzie’s top ten favourite people.

Never the less, he was smart and bossy and right at that moment, Mozzie hated him.

If he had just _waited_ \- Mozzie frowned again. He’d been doing it the whole trip over, and it still wasn’t doing him any good. All he could focus on was the damn sound of Neal’s not-quite-there voice as he accused him of the one thing Mozzie had sworn never to do.

Knark. Tell. Flip.

Mozzie wasn’t a snitch. He didn’t betray people.

He wouldn’t.

Not Neal.

He’d never betray Neal.

He’d done some things in his life he wasn’t proud of, but he wasn’t heartless. He wasn’t corrupt or, or. He was loyal. He watched Neal’s back. After all, hadn’t he stayed?   
They’d had millions, no, _billions_ in lost treasure and he’d stayed because Neal had asked him to. He’d been prepared to leave, to pack it all in and leave and the feeling still haunted him. But Neal had asked, he’d looked Mozzie in the eyes and he’d dropped all pretenses and he’d asked Mozzie to stay, to not make him choose because he _couldn’t_ choose between Mozzie and Burke. It hadn’t been fair. It still wasn’t fair. Mozzie had kept Neal’s back, he’d been there no matte what through all of it and two years with Burke and it was almost for nothing.

Except it wasn’t nothing because Neal had asked him to stay, to stay with him and help him because Neal couldn’t do it alone.

And so they’d stayed, the treasure had gone into storage. His blessed Big Score packed away as best he could and kept hidden and now they were here. They were three and a half years in plus a little more and Neal had been knocked back further than square one and Mozzie had no idea what to do anymore. Neal trusted Burke, except he didn’t now and Mozzie didn’t know how to tell him he did. Tell him that they were partners and that he wanted to _stay_ when the Neal he’d have to tell it to would double take and laugh and Mozzie could just say the word _treasure,_ and _I did it, I beat Adler, let me show you what I found_ and there would be nothing that Burke could do to stop them just disappearing and Neal would be all his again.

There’d be no more New York, but there’d be no more tracking anklet and no more radius and no more security details and planning and plotting around the Burke’s notice or Diana’s notice or Jones’ or any of them. They could have their island. Their safe haven, the dream they’d conjured day after day, night after night – outlandish and brilliant and a bit crazed and oh so perfectly capable of coming true.

But this was New York, and Peter was Peter and El was El and June was June and they were why Neal had asked to _stay_ and why Mozzie had agreed, they were why he was so careful fencing that Picasso, why it had been so brilliant when it had just slipped into the ether and they were six million richer in barely a blink. They were why he made sure to be specific and careful about the fence he found for the black pearls just last week. They were why Neal had started getting restless. Why he’d been sleeping badly and pretending he wasn’t. They were why Neal had walked around with his long hidden hesitancies rising to the surface and why Mozzie was restraining himself as he unlocked the door to the Island.

Neal didn’t want to leave. The Neal Mozzie knew, had watched blossom out of prison in a way that was amazing and terrifying in equal parts. They’d done things in the last three and a half years they’d not have dreamed of before. And now they were here, fighting for a place to stand.

And so much of it was Burke’s fault and not at the same time and Mozzie couldn’t stand it.

When he opened the door he braced himself and tried to be prepared for anything he'd find, but hoping that regardless of his apparent change of allegiance, Neal had stuck around.

It was obvious this was where he’d gone and a part of Mozzie smiled smugly, while the rest of him sighed in contemp.

All it took was two seconds inside the apartment made to make it very clear that while Neal _had_ been there, it was no longer the case. Neal's - disturbingly bloody - hospital disguise was discarded over the couch, as Mozzie walked through the main section into the weave of bedroom and study he found Neal's cupboard open and empty. Hurrying into the bathroom Mozzie’s heart sank as he took in the open cupboard, empty of pretty much everything. Which that meant Neal had enough pain meds to get himself delusional for six months solid. Which considering the scrubs in the main room was both a blessing and a curse and Mozzie couldn’t help but hope it would be enough to at least slow Neal down. Because if Neal had left The Island, their mutual Last Resort Emergency Halfway House, that meant quite a few things Mozzie didn’t bear thinking about. Neal was clearly angry, hurt and in pain. He wouldn’t have taken the drugs if he wasn’t. Neal wasn’t fond of needing something to keep himself going and if he’d cleared the place out that was obviously the case.

The only upside to the situation Mozzie could find as he battled to keep down the roiling terror and guilt swirling inside of him, was that they had a doped Neal to chase, who, depending on how many pills he'd taken would determine on how sharp his mind was. And that determined whether or not Neal was still in the city. One thing Mozzie knew, was that Neal wouldn’t take anything until he was somewhere he could trust himself, somewhere he could lock himself away, and if he was bleeding, then he was probably not going to be far. But all the same, if he'd left The Island that meant he was going somewhere Mozzie couldn’t find him.

***

Mozzie was right, the moment Neal saw him again in the state he was in, he was going to run the other way.

All the same, Peter didn’t like feeling usless. So he’d come back to the bureau to wait for Mozzie’s call. His phone didn’t take to being stared at, and for the first time in over a week, Peter couldn’t focus on punishing the man responsible for this whole mess.

He wanted his damn phone to ring and for Mozzie to perk up and tell him he’d found Neal and the idiot had gone and remembered everything and they could all go home.

Peter knew he wasn’t going to have any sort of luck like that in the slightest.

It didn’t stop him hoping that the Little Guy had at least _found_ Neal when his phone started to buzz on the table in front of him.

“Mozzie, tell me you have good news.” Even Peter could hear the gruff desperation in his own voice as he answered.

“ _No good, Suit. He’s not here._ ”

Peter sighed, feeling his heart plummet.

Dammit.

“Where else could he be?”

“ _The possibilities are infinite, g-man, Neal’s in the wind. He’s gone._ ”

Mozzie’s voice was tinged with disappointment to match Peter’s and he didn’t wait around to let Peter say anything, and to be honest, Peter didn’t have much to say anyway.

What _could_ he say to the smaller man?

Neal was gone; he had gone just after they’d got him back. He’d disappeared and he had been the one to screw up the only viable link they had with the Neal currently running around New York City. It was _his_ fault Neal no longer trusted Mozzie.

And he’d be damned if he let it sit that way.

Neal needed them, whether he knew it or not.

Peter sighed and stared at the boxes Diana had had the probies carry up from storage while Peter was talking (or arguing) with Mozzie.

Six years of files collected from James Bonds to Neal Caffrey. From the initial investigation to the beginning of Peter’s, when Neal’s cocky Atlantic Bonds landed on his desk courtesy of a lazy agent taking advantage.

The boxes had been staring at him since he arrived and a part of him was still hoping that he wouldn’t have to open them. That Neal would show up somewhere.

But a larger part of him was finally starting to accept the truth for exactly what it was; Neal couldn’t remember him short of the man on his tail, he couldn’t remember a single day he spent in prison or since he left it.

The Neal currently on the streets of New York was seven years younger, and he was not the man that Peter knew. That Peter could trace and trust.

The Neal he needed to find was the Neal that had taken him three years to corner with a backhanded ploy using his only weakness; the Neal in the boxes in front of him.

And after three years working side by side, he wasn’t sure he wanted to open up the past with everything that lay behind them.

But if he was going to find Neal, it was the only thing he could do.

Peter sighed, and stood up.

They had come a long way in the last eight years, since Diana had first suggested why they hadn’t staked out Neal’s girlfriend. Why they hadn’t gone after Moreau.

After all, it had all been about Moreau. Peter had been furious with himself he hadn’t seen how much of Neal’s spree had been for Moreau’s benefit and having Diana just suggest it had been well – a case breaker.

It had been about Kate.

And just like she’d been all those years ago, Kate proved to be the eye of the storm and Peter almost had to hit himself as it suddenly occurred to him.   
How could he have been so stupid?

Peter reached into the files, searching until he found the one he was after.

How could this have not occurred to him sooner?

Peter smiled.

“I know where you are, Neal,” he said to himself quietly as he stared down at the page.

“I know where you are.”

 

***

 

“Agent Berrigan?”

Diana and Blake both turned towards Cooper who was standing nervously in the doorway. Diana was immediately reminded of how Blake had been standing just days ago in a similar position looking just as nervous holding a card in his hands with the number three written across the front of it.

Diana’s blood ran cold.

“What is it, Cooper?” she asked, tentatively. Cooper swallowed and then straightened.

“We just got an alert on Ivan Korevsky’s mobile.”

She glanced at Blake, who shrugged.

“I set it up once I ID’d him,” he said simply and Diana turned back to Cooper.

“What was it?”

“It was a call from the Marshall’s offices. Holding cells. It was Volkov.”

“ _Volkov_?” Diana stood up, warily looking between Blake and Cooper.

“It only lasted twenty seconds.”

“Call the Marshall’s I want to know what was said in that phone call,” she said darkly. Cooper blushed.

“I already called. They’re sending the recording over, but the Marshall I talked to was Volkov’s supervising guard on that call. He only said one thing.”

“What was it?”

“He said ‘checkmate’ and then hung up.”

Checkmate.

Diana felt a hand crawl up her spine like a spider. She spun to stare at the image of Korevsky still staring out from the screen.

Checkmate.

It rang too many bells for something so simple. Checkmate.

Then it came back to her.  
Checkmate. Peter.

 _One, two, three, check._  
The notes.

Peter.

“Find me Peter. Someone find me Agent Burke!” Diana called, barging past Blake and Cooper and hanging out over the side of the bull pen, pulling out her own phone as she did.

She faced Cooper for a moment.

“When was this?” she asked pointedly. Cooper went a little redder. The curling pit of fear in her stomach at that moment increased just a little.

“When was Volkov’s call?”

Flustered, Cooper finally answered.

“About an hour ago. We haven’t had the alert on Korevsky on long. It took time to come through.”

“Diana what is it?” Blake asked, following her out, looking between her and Cooper. She spun to face him.

“Checkmate. The _notes_ , Blake. When Volkov was talking to Peter about why he took Neal he said something, he said ‘one, two, three, check’. That’s exactly what the notes said. Neal’s abduction was number three. Check was getting him back, checkmate has to be Peter.”

Blake went a little pale and went running past her down towards his desk.

“Come on, Peter,” Diana murmured as she held her phone to her ear and listened to it buzz.

“Come on, pick up, please,”

 

***

One thing was made very obvious to Neal the moment he broke into the apartment: it hadn’t been used in a long time.

It was empty.

Or, at least, mostly empty. The furniture was completely gone, the decoration, the life they’d once had had been all stripped away and it was jarring – he could remember being here yesterday. He could close his eyes and know where everything had been, everything he’d put down just the day before. It was all gone. There was a rusted old bike on one wall, and a half dozen boxes in the far corner.

Wincing, Neal limped over to the boxes. They weren’t labeled but he almost knew as he opened the first box that this would be what was in the others too. Files. Manila folders. Bureau issue files and photographs and Neal stared as he reached into the box and pulled out the top folder.

His name was written across the top. It was blue, the FBI brand embossed into the cardboard.

Neal opened the folder, his pulse racing.

His face stared back at him. He was holding one of those blasted boards with the details of his arrest scrawled across it. His arrest. His arrest. Neal gulped, staring at the page.  
He was arrested on the 27th of January 2006. He’d been _arrested_.   
He turned the page.

Four years.

He’d been in jail for four years.

Neal turned page after page. Suspected cases, links, evidence. Reports.

He grunted as he pulled the box down off the pile and set it on the ground, lowering himself to the ground. His vision whitened out again for a moment and he held his breath before he opened his eyes again and focused on the box of files. He pulled the second out and opened it.

Four years in prison. Infirmary files. Reports.

Four years with the FBI.

He was a fed. A snitch. He worked with Peter Burke. He worked with Peter…

Work release.

Escape risk.

Suspected cases.

Closed cases.

Files and files of them.

Aliases he’d used and hadn’t even thought of yet. Jobs he’d pulled and jobs he couldn’t remember doing. A frustrated noise caught in Neal’s throat and he pushed the first box aside and pulled the second close, rummaging through it.

He didn’t get far.

Right on top was a black and white photograph. Kate.

A man’s hand on her shoulder.  
Kate.

Neal hesitantly reached out for the photo and held it closer to him. His brain still felt thick from the meds and he ached from the dull pain, but God – her face. There was a man’s hand on her shoulder and she didn’t look happy. She looked… scared and Neal felt a white hot flash of fear run through him. It was instinctual. It was beyond what he knew, what he could remember and all of a sudden he didn’t want to know what was in the files in front of him. He didn’t want to know.

But it was almost already too late.

In the back of his head he could feel this piercing furious heat on his back and this bright white light in the corners of his vision and Neal cried out, letting go of the picture.

He could feel the brace of someone’s arm around his chest and this aching fear running through him.

The folder down had her name on it.

Kate Moreau.

Neal’s hands were shaking.

He couldn’t make them stop.

The first page was a report from the FAA.

Explosion near the door.

Semtax A Grade Explosives.

Fatalities: Jordan Pleasance, pilot.  
Kate Moreau, passenger.

Neal felt the world slip out from under him. The file hung loose in his grasp.

Neal stared at the page in front of him, the information staring back at him with a stark clarity it was impossible to blame on bad eyesight. How was it possible? It couldn’t be possible. She could be – how could they have… Neal stared.

Kate was dead.

“You found it then.”

Neal nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Peter Burke’s voice. The sound of it still made his stomach tighten into a knot, or at least it would have if he could feel anything at all. He scrambled painfully to his feet.

“I wondered where Mozzie had stashed all those files.”

Neal didn’t say anything. He listened as Peter took several measured steps towards him.

“Neal,” the man murmured and it could have been the start of some grand speech or reprimand but it faded back at him and then disappeared. He didn’t follow it with anything, and that’s when Neal realized what it was: a plea.

“Kate. She, uh, did she?” the rest of his words seemed to trap themselves in his throat and he didn’t get any further either. He was alone, he felt suddenly horrifyingly alone and completely under scrutiny.

Peter’s face crumpled.

“It happened before she had time to know, Neal.”

Neal nodded, still staring at the page still grasped in his hands. Kate was dead. Kate was _dead_ ; that much was truth. It wasn’t 2005 anymore, that much was true as well. How much had changed in eight years? How much had he lost? His freedom, Kate, himself? How much more was left to go?

“You know, I’d almost forgotten how much of a chase you were. The last few times you haven’t really given me much of a go.” Burke’s voice was light and vaguely goading and completely see through. The man was horrible at trying to lighten the mood, or whatever that had been. But the sentiment was nice.

“How many is there?”

Peter frowned at him, not quite understanding what he meant. Neal cleared his throat and tried again.

“How many times have you caught me?”

Burke smiled, just a tiny thing, but easing, it settled that little bit of tension hanging between them. Peter laughed a little, a low chuckle that stayed mostly in his throat.  
“This makes eight.”

Neal closed his eyes. Eight times.

“You have left me clues for most of them, and for a lot of them you weren’t running; you wanted to be found. So it doesn’t really count.”

“You’re good at finding me, then.”

“I’m good at finding you, Neal,” Peter said simply, nodding. He took another step towards Neal and Neal felt himself tense. It was an unconscious feat, but he felt the tension rise up again.

“Sorry,” he murmured, glancing up at Burke. The man was looking at him sadly.

“It’s okay.” He had a look in his eyes, like he understood. Neal wished he damn well did.

“Are you alright, Neal? You holding up?”

Neal nodded mutely.

“You let me out,” Neal said after a moment, glancing back up. Burke had moved a few steps closer and even though his brain wanted to tense, his body wouldn’t comply. His body was used to Peter, how he moved and reacted. It was like muscle memory. He couldn’t be wary around this man; he was far too used to trusting him.

That was a shock, something felt in the memory of his bones more than in his head. It went beyond years of documented papers as proof, beyond sense with everything that had happened, all the interactions he’d had with Mozzie since he woke up suddenly falling into line. No, this was beyond all that and both scarier and more calming than anything else either.

“I did,” Peter said softly as he took another step closer.

“I work for you.”

“You do,” again that soft spoken answer.

“Is it your fault I’m like this?”

Peter was quiet this time. Neal looked up at him, stared him in the face and watched the guilt fight for place in Peter’s expression. The man’s determination won out, but it was still there in his eyes, this hesitancy that couldn’t be anything else.

“It started with a case, yes,” Peter said, but Neal could see through his conviction, it had started with a case, yes, that part he believed because Peter Burke had always been an honest man. Even the Burke Neal knew and recognized. That he remembered. As little memories he had. Burke had been a fair player. A relentless player. A smart player. He had chased Neal hard for a long time, sometimes just a step behind and it had been thrilling. Or it was thrilling. Or it had been. Had been. Peter had stopped chasing him now. Or had he? Peter had chased him this time, hadn’t he? He was here, and hadn’t he said that he’d found him every single time he’d run?

Neal bowed his head.

This was all too much.

“I’m sorry, Neal,” Peter said quietly and Neal opened his eyes. The raw intensity in Peter’s voice was impossible to ignore. He turned to look at Peter, who was standing right beside him, staring at him with this look on his face that made Neal feel awkward and … cared for. He swallowed, battling over this rising feeling in his stomach he couldn’t discern when in the corner of his eye he saw something in the corner. A spark of movement, a shadow tall and dark and he tensed, staring behind Peter, moving just an inch and that subtle movement gave him that tiniest sliver of better view and his blood ran cold. There wasn’t time to think as he focused on the shadow in the doorway as there was the tiniest glint of metal as the man aimed his gun.

Neal lunged sideways, grabbing hold of Peter and pushing him with him. Peter let out a shocked grunt as he tripped over himself, dragging Neal down with him in a mess of limbs. Neal gasped as he hit the ground. It was instinct that took over from there. Afterwards he couldn’t pin down a conscious decision at all as he’d rolled over, taking Peter’s sidearm with him, flicking the safety off as he slid onto his back, one leg bracing his body as he held the gun with both hands and fired, twice, at the shadow in the opening of the room. The man had taken two steps forward into the room in the time it had taken Neal to push Peter out of the way and fire the agent’s gun. It seemed to take far longer for the man to fall, and it was only when he did that the noise seemed to turn itself back up in a rush that was disorientating.

He’d _shot someone_.

“Jesus, Neal – “ Peter was saying something, but Neal couldn’t hear it. He pushed himself wearily to a sitting position but didn’t move to go any further, he couldn’t, the world spun and it took everything he had not to vomit or pass out. Instead he just sat and stared down at the gun in his hand.

He’d shot someone, and he had no idea whether it was the first time he had or not. Surely that would be something he’d remember – _surely_. Only he couldn’t. He couldn’t remember Kate dying. Had that part of him changed too? Had he lost everything about himself that he knew now?

Or had he just given it away then?

***

“I shot him,” Neal croaked, looking up at Peter with wide glazed eyes.   
“And I didn’t even think about it. I just – why didn’t I think about it?”

Peter swallowed, staring over at the slumped form a few feet away. He was two steps behind but it was obvious enough from what was right in front of him to understand what had just happened. What Neal had seen that he hadn’t. Even from this distance he could see they were Russian and familiar. He’d hazard an easy bet that they had some connection to Volkov and that he’d stared at their mugshot more than once in the last week. And they’d followed him, or Neal, and been ready to take them both out.

Before Neal had intervened.

Neal and his sharp shooting skills so very rarely put to use but so well honed they posed so many unanswered questions, even now, four months before Peter could lose the chance to know anymore about Neal Caffrey. Or, at least, that’s how it had been a week ago.

Now, now Neal didn’t trust him enough to let him within a foot of him without clearly being uncomfortable. Still, the look on his face now was impossible to ignore, Peter moved forwards, making sure he wasn’t touching him, but close enough that he could if he was needed.

“It’s okay, Neal. It’s okay.”

“I didn’t even _think_ ; why didn’t I think? Peter?” Neal’s face was white as a sheet and he looked straight at Peter, like Peter knew the answer. Even Peter found himself floundering.

“Neal?” he asked, reaching out to rest his hand on the kid’s shoulder, steadying him. Neal was still paper white and confused, staring down at the gun hanging loose in his right hand.

“I didn’t even hesitate, I just – “ he was clearly having a hard time accepting what he’d done. As grateful as Peter was, it was alarming. But very Neal. Peter stared down at his friend, taking all of him in when he noticed it – the dark wet patch down the kid’s left side. He was bleeding again, and quite badly.

“Neal, you’re bleeding,” Peter said, feeling stupid at stating the obvious, but all the same a little alarmed and Neal hadn’t really seemed to notice. When he looked down he didn’t really seem to care too much. He was beginning to shake. Shock had set in. Peter needed to call for help, but he was having a hard time entertaining the thought of taking his hands off Neal even to reach into his own pockets. He looked like he was barely holding it together.

“I need to call for help, Neal, okay?”

Neal’s eyes were glazed and he was still staring at the gun in his hands, so Peter reached out and pried it from his grasp. He gave it up without effort, but without the metal on his skin he seemed a mite more coherent as he looked up at Peter.

“I need to go and call for help, okay?” Peter asked softly and this time Neal nodded.

“I’ll be right back, okay? I’ll be just over there.”

Peter kept his gaze on Neal for a moment longer than necessary, purely for his own benefit before he got to his feet and walked over to the body and turning it over to get a good look at his face. Peter’s frown deepened as he recognized the high forehead and tattooed face of the driver of the SUV, Volkov’s muscle. Rummaging in his pockets for his phone he cast a quick glance back at Neal before he opened his cell. Neal was exactly as Peter had left him. He was staring blankly in front of him and the hand he had used to shoot the driver was still resting on his knees, palm up and fingers curled. Peter let out a deep breath before hitting Diana’s number. There were four missed calls from her.

It didn’t take long before she picked up.

“ _Peter_?”

“I found him, Diana,” the words slipped out before he could stop himself and the breath of relief on the other end was palpable.

“ _Thank God. Where are you, boss?_ ”

“We’re at Kate Moreau’s old building. Where I found Neal the second time,” he murmured. He could hear Diana moving on her end, her breathing picking up just a little.

“I need you here, Di. I was followed.”

“ _We were worried about that, Boss. I tried to call you,_ ” she said and Peter knew she was definitely moving, he could hear the bell of the elevator.

“I know. You don’t need to worry anymore. It was the driver. Valkov’s muscle.”

“ _You need me to bring the cavalry, Peter?_ ”

“You’ll need the lot of them, Diana. Neal shot him. He’s dead.”

“Neal _shot him?_ ”

“Yeah. I’m gonna need an ambulance as well.”

“ _Are you hurt?_ ”

“Neal is. I think he’s busted his stitches. And I wouldn’t be shy on diagnosing shock either. He needs to go back to Lenox Hill,” Peter said, glancing back at Neal. He hadn’t moved.

“ _I’ll make the calls, boss. We’ll be there as soon as we can._ ”

“Thanks, Diana,” Peter said softly, hanging up and slipping the phone back in his pocket and dragging himself to his feet. He felt old and tired, weary and worn out. It was a feeling he didn’t quite like in the slightest. Crossing the distance back to Neal, Peter crouched down in front of him. Neal still hadn’t moved and was sitting twisted on his knees. Peter laid his hands on Neal’s shoulders and gently moved him, urging him sideways.

“Come on, buddy, let’s get you a little more comfortable, eh?” he said quietly. Neal’s eyes narrowed and Peter couldn’t help but be relieved to see a sharpness back in his gaze again.

“What happened, Peter?” he asked softly and for a brief moment Peter was terrified that Neal couldn’t remember what had just happened and he was ready to check for a head wound he somehow missed, before he realized quietly that Neal meant _everything_ ; the whole situation, the shooting, the accident, the deal, his arrest – all of it.

He’d seen everything on paper. Or as much as Mozzie had been squirreling away.   
But Neal had no idea the reasons why it had happened. Just that it had.

Peter cleared his throat.

He really didn’t want to have to be the one to explain it all, but it was obvious in that moment that Neal needed to hear at least some of it now.

“Kate was missing and we used that to catch you. We flushed her out and waited for you to show up. And you did.”

“So that’s how you caught me.”

“You practically turned yourself in, Neal. When you told me what happened, you said Mozzie knew it was a trap, but you went in anyway. You needed to see her again.”

Peter looked up at Neal then and he almost couldn’t keep talking, considering the look on the damn kid’s face, the grief, the longing, the confusion all plain as day. Peter took another deep breath in.

Keep going.

“You came in, and you told her you loved her and she forgave you. She said it back.”

“Was it true though?”

“She waited for you, Neal. She didn’t know it was a trap, and when we arrested you she was there the whole time. She was there at your arraignment, at your sentencing. Every day. Whatever was between you, it was forgiven, Neal. She loved you. She came to see you every week, like clockwork for four –“ Peter stopped. He’d almost said four years.

“She came to see you every week, until about six months until your parole, she stopped. She broke it off. She must have done something or said something, because you were incensed. You broke out of supermax six weeks later.”

“Did I find her?”

“No,” Peter said sadly. This was the hard part.

“She was being held by someone. You knew she was in trouble, but couldn’t prove anything. You had three months to go. I found you the day you broke out. You came – “

“Here,” Neal said, interrupting quietly. His face was pale and Peter wasn’t sure if it was the story or the steadily bleeding wound on his side, but it was the wistful nature of Neal’s voice that piqued him.

“You remember?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” He looked up; blinking like he was trying to hold back tears, but his expression was stoic.

“This was where we lived. Where I lived when I first moved to New York. This was the first place we had together. The longest place we had together.”

“And she stayed here when you went inside.”

“She was gone when I got out looking for her, wasn’t she?” he asked, turning his gaze on Peter, wide eyed and desperate. Peter nodded.

“She was. You went back inside. They gave you another four years.”

“But you let me out.”

“I did.”

“Why?” that question again. Why?

“You’d served your time, Neal. You were being punished for loving Kate. It didn’t seem – “ fair? Right? Why exactly had he let him out?  
He’d never quite figured that part out, even now, some four years after Neal had first proposed the idea to him.

“You said you could help me find another forger I was after. The Dutchman. I knew you wanted out to find Kate. But it didn’t matter. I gave in. You were released working for me on a two mile leash in Manhattan.”

“Two miles.”

“Two miles. Even with two miles you managed to work your way up in the world. I left you at a midtown motel and you wound up living with a rich old widow within the afternoon. You went to the thrift store for clothes and came out with a room full of Rat Pack hand me downs and a Manhattan loft.”

“I help out,” Neal murmured, so quietly Peter almost missed it, almost like he was talking only to himself. Peter tried to keep his smile under wraps.

“Wash the jag, play with her grand-daughters – “

“Walk Bugsy. Keep an eye on him when June’s out of town. I keep her company. She gets lonely.”

He all but whispered the last of it and Peter awkwardly cleared his throat and started to continue as if Neal hadn’t spoken.

“You helped me catch the Dutchman and we made your deal permanent. You had four years working for me on your two miles. But of course, that wasn’t what you intended. You looked for Kate.”

“Did I find her?”

“You did, Neal. I’ll be able to explain it properly later – “ or hopefully Neal would remember and he wouldn’t have to…

“But the man who had her was willing to give her back in exchange for the amber music box owned by Catherine the Great.”

“I don’t have it.”

“You didn’t, no. You found it, though. You and – “

“Alex.”

“You remember that or is it past history talking?” Peter prodded and Neal smiled, this ghost of a former, more familiar beam but it was enough. Peter laughed.

“You handed over the music box and were ready to disappear.”

Peter stopped, his smile fading. How could all that history turn into just a few sentences with the capacity to be spoken of like they didn’t matter? He could try and make it easier, simpler than it was. But the weight of them was going to be much heavier now in Neal than it was for the Neal Peter knew, who spoke about Kate with a reverence no longer weighed down by damning grief.

The look on Neal’s face said he knew what came next anyway. The story was probably in those files he’d read. Would Peter’s own statement be in them? Knowing Neal and Mozzie, in all likelihood. For a moment Peter panicked, trying to remember what he’d said in that report two and a half years ago.

“You were at the airport and she was waiting in the plane and – “ and I stopped you. The words were on Peter’s tongue but he couldn’t force them out.

“I turned around,” Neal said. It was soft and quiet and Neal was staring somewhere behind Peter when he said it, like he could see something Peter couldn’t. Perhaps locked in some vision of his history Peter had thought they had put behind them. There had been other traumas, other betrayals. He should have known that Kate’s tragedy would never be quite over. She was the love of Neal’s life, to which all others had been and would be compared.

“Neal – “ Peter said, reaching out to rest a hand on his friend’s shoulder, but before he could say anything more, there was the distinctive sound of movement outside. Peter’s hand reached out for the gun he’d set out of Neal’s reach, and beside him Neal went immediately tense. But Peter could do little more than grasp the handle before he heard the click of boots on the stairs and Diana was running up the hallway. She stopped when she reached the doorway and stared at the scene in front of her. When she finally started moving again her steps were slow and deliberate and Neal stared to relax.

“Hey Diana,” Peter said, looking up at her as she stopped in front of them and crouched down.

“Hey yourself. You two just can’t help getting yourselves into trouble, can you?” she said, her voice annoyed but her expression was kind.

“You alright, Neal?” she asked, her gaze moving over the red stain down Neal’s side and the grey pallor of his skin.

He cocked his head to the side in a brief half gesture.

“I’m… I don’t know,” he acceded and Peter was thankful that it wasn’t the oft heard and untrue ‘I’m fine’.

“There’s some EMT’s trying to navigate a stretcher up the stairs. They’ll be here in a bit,” she said conversationally and Neal didn’t press it. He just nodded. Peter would have translated the expression on his face as grateful. It wasn’t often he saw that, especially when hospitals were on the agenda. After all, just two days ago Neal had broken out of one.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said with a hefty sigh and Peter reached out to brace him, resting his hand back on Neal’s shoulder.

“And neither are we,” he said. It was definite then, Neal definitely looked grateful.

 

***

They were spending far too much time at the hospital, Mozzie thought as he paused in the doorway. All the same, this time there was a definite feeling of relief to see Neal in one of those damned gowns. He was back, he was alive, he was alright.

Or, as alright as he could be.

Mozzie knocked lightly on the doorframe and Neal spun to stare at him. He still looked pale, wan, tired. Only now, now he looked haunted as well.

“He knows about Kate. About the explosion. He knows about the deal working with me,” Peter had said when Mozzie had finally arrived.

“He knows.”

And Peter had looked a little haunted too.

But now, now it was Neal’s gaze bearing down on him as Mozzie carefully made his way across the room. He felt… unwelcome, almost. Still, he sat down next to Neal and waited for his friend to speak first. Neal’s voice lacked the spark of energy it had last time, it was a croak, like he’d been screaming.

It reminded Mozzie how it had been after Kate. After they’d sat in one of those bare rooms after the doctor had left and Peter had left and it was just him and Neal while they were waiting for the Marshall’s to take him back to lockup. Neal’s voice had been wasted like he’d been screaming and his eyes had been dull and glassy like he’d been crying and they’d just been silent until Mozzie hadn’t been able to take it any longer and said ‘I’m sorry’ and Neal had just croaked ‘she’s gone, she’s just… gone’.

But this time, this time Kate has been gone for a long time but it’s just as raw a loss. Except that Neal couldn’t remember. It was just a fact of life that has been passed and written down as a fact.

Kate was gone.

And Neal couldn’t remember.

In a fit of selfishness Mozzie couldn’t help but hope – oh please, oh please – that he couldn’t.

“If I didn’t ask, were you ever going to tell me, Mozzie?” Neal finally asked and Mozzie couldn’t help but jump at the sound of his friend’s voice cracking open the silence like an egg and everything that had been hidden was suddenly all over the place and Mozzie didn’t know what to do with it. How to deal with it.

“Which part?” he asked, a bit stupidly. Neal’s eyed narrowed.

“All of it? It’s my _life_ , Moz. How long did you think I could go on without knowing what happened to me?”

“As long as you damn well could.”

“It’s not something you had the right to keep from me,” Neal said, with a snarl that Mozzie hadn’t heard in a long time. Neal wasn’t an angel. Wasn’t free from the burdens of anger and violence as much as he tried. He was gentile and charming by nature, but he had pushed that nature into something alien a long time ago. Mozzie had realized years ago the privilege it was to see Neal erupt in front of him. Neal kept things inside and he didn’t often vent, and venting in front of someone was as intimate as the man got. He’d been through a lot and yet Neal’s anger didn’t manifest as often as it would have if Mozzie had been in his friend’s shoes. He couldn’t help but feel almost glad to see that burning anger in Neal’s eyes now. This time, it warranted anger and frustration and all those emotions Neal liked to bottle and hide.

This was a time to let go.  
Even those reasons close to chest that were hard to express. Mozzie sighed.

Lead by example.

“And I couldn’t bear the idea telling you it all, Neal,” he said, started softly. “You could have died, we had to stand around and watch you clinging to life for three days and then you wake up and you think you’re eight years younger and you’re as free as a bird. The idea of telling you that the next four years you don’t remember you spent in a maximum security prison and before you could get out Adler took Kate away from you and then killed her before you could get her back? It made me sick. Neal, I couldn’t tell you that and watch you drop like a stone out of the sky. And neither could the Suit.”

“You should have told me,” Neal said again and this time Mozzie sighed, hanging his head.

“I was going to. That first time they let me in after you woke up. I was supposed to tell you that you worked for the Suits and that Kate was dead but I couldn’t, Neal. I just couldn’t.”

He looked up and Neal was watching him, staring at him with those impossible blue eyes and wearing this expression on his face like he didn’t know quite how to feel. An expression that was all Neal. Mozzie knew; he’d seen it before, so many times.

“I had to help pick up the pieces after she died, and knowing you couldn’t remember any of that was like a blessing and a curse and I took advantage of that. I’m sorry, Neal. I should have told you.”

Neal looked away and Mozzie could see it happening before it did. Neal’s propensity to pass the blame back to himself to make his partner (or mark) feel better. It was a conman’s trick, but it was something Neal simply couldn’t stop. He had such little actual self worth it was alarming, really.

“I should have waited. You said you’d tell me in due time. I just didn’t wait,” Neal said, looking down at his hands. Mozzie watched him.

He should have waited, but that was Neal. It wasn’t that he should of, more so that he simply _couldn’t_ wait. He never could and that had always been Neal. It was now or never. Mozzie should have foreseen it, should have known the Neal that woke up didn’t have the hesitancy, the moment of reflection and consideration built into him with the Seal of Burke branded on it. The Neal who had woken up had been the Neal of before, and Mozzie had been so wrapped up in just having him _back_ that he ignored what part of Neal had returned and what hadn’t. And he’d been blinded by that instinctual part of him that had been grinning ear to ear knowing that all he needed to do was pull up Treasure Cam 3.0 and give Neal one glimpse and he wouldn’t have thought twice about Burke or the feds or anything they would be leaving behind.

He’d been blinded and now his eyes were open and Neal was paying the price and the guilt was thick and cloying. Mozzie shifted in his seat.

“It’s fine. I should have foreseen it. I know you, after all – the true sign of knowledge is experience. And I have a lot of experience.”

Neal grinned, like a brief glimpse of sunlight through a storm.

“Einstein; Mozzie, you only quote Einstein when you’re happy.”

“The state of my wellbeing is not to be put under a microscope to be studied and questioned. I’m glad you’re alive, that’s all.”

“Aw, Moz, that almost sounded like you care,” Neal quipped, smiling that impossible smile. It still looked a little odd on his older face; it lacked that boyish quality that had made it manic and invincible. It still packed a punch, charming and joyous but just that little bit strange and for the briefest moment Mozzie felt a pang for the Neal-that-was. The Neal that belonged in the body in front of him, who had fought and won his battles and earned the scars that marked the body in front of him. But the soul, the soul was the same, the very heart of him. The Older Neal was a little warier, a little bruised; perhaps forgetting those who had done the bruising could finally help the tarnishes heal.

If he let them. Maybe this time he would. Mrs Suit could read him like a book these days, front and back and seeing that unleashed on the Young Neal in front of him would be a sight to behold; a woman who knew everything about you and you didn’t know a thing about her could be a powerful thing.

The Suits could help him heal and he and June would take care of the rest. He could call Alex again, she’d come the moment he said there was room. It was the only thing stopping her once the news had reached Florence about Neal’s initial disappearance.   
No, Neal had a support network like a spider in his web. He’d be fine.

Neal had friends.

People who cared, all they had to do was show him how much and help being those barriers down that Mozzie hadn’t been able to do on his own the first time. Or even Kate.  
No, together, surely they could manage a miracle between them.

 

***

 

Peter was exhausted, but he was having a hard time trying to leave.  
Neal had passed out almost the moment they’d put him on the stretcher and Peter’s nerves had frayed to shreds. Every hint of exhaustion he’d felt between the moment they’d loaded Neal into the damn ambulance and now had been quashed under the need to know his partner was safe. It was his fault, after all.

Peter sighed.

The sun was out, it was nearly ten in the morning, Neal was awake and talking quietly with Mozzie. Volkov was in holding, his muscle, Krovesky was dead. Overall things seemed almost finished, but there was a part of Peter that felt it just wasn’t. He knew from this moment, he was going on leave. It was almost a certainty and it was one he was actually looking forward to. But all the same, there was a bubbling sense of unease keeping him here. Keeping him awake.

And it seemed to take fruit when Reese took pause beside him, watching Neal and Mozzie through the glass.

“How’s Caffrey doing?” he asked, solemn and quiet. Peter sighed and glanced over at his boss. Hughes looked grim.

“They stitched him back up, but the doctor seems to think he’ll be fine. In time.”

“Has he remembered anything?” Reese asked gently and Peter sighed.

“Not much. Nothing new. He remembers Moreau’s explosion, and living with June Holloway, but nothing else. He won’t say much about shooting Korevsky either. He doesn’t trust me.”

It hurt to say it, but Peter knew it for truth.

Hughes sighed, sounding sympathetic.

“He trusted you enough to shoot a man, Peter, even I know that’s a big thing to ask of the boy.”

“He says it was instinct. He doesn’t know why he did it.”

Hughes was quiet and Peter glanced over at him.

“What are we doing about it?”

Hughes sighed again, this time it was long and weary and Peter couldn’t help but tense up.

“Peter, I’ve been ordered to ship Caffrey back to Supermax until the DOJ can conduct a hearing and make their decision.”

“He’s being sent back?” Peter could barely hear himself over the roiling anger rearing up inside him. Hughes looked more than uncomfortable but that was doing _nothing_ to stop it. Instead he kept talking, continuing what honestly felt like a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare.

Only it wasn’t and he knew it and there was nothing he could do.

“As of right now, Peter, Caffrey is set to serve out the rest of his sentence in his old cell. Beyond that, it’s up to the DOJ whether he’s persecuted for escaping again, or for shooting Korevsky.”

“And whether he’ll have to serve more time?” Peter asked, astounded. The only thing he could feel stopping his anger from all out bursting was the look of intense dislike across Reese’s face. Reese clearly didn’t like what he was saying, but Peter knew there was nothing they could do. Hughes wouldn’t be telling him this if there was another way.

“That’s up to the DOJ, Peter.”

“And they won’t let him serve the four months out with me? Or even under house arrest?”

“He’s classed as an escaped fugitive, Peter; an escaped fugitive that stole and used an agent’s gun to kill a man. The fact he was saving your life is an oversight. It doesn’t matter to them. What matters is that the felon who has served three and a half tumultuous years in your care, currently doesn’t even remember being incarcerated the first time! They’re hesitant to let him out at all. I’m sorry, Peter, but there’s nothing I can do. The boy goes back to Supermax when he’s signed out tomorrow morning.”

Peter felt his stomach turn over and he glanced back at Neal. Mozzie was still sitting next to him and they were talking, nothing heated, just banter. Neal’s eyes were half mast and he was solemn, the only part of him moving was his lips and his eyelids in very slow blinks.

“I can’t let you see him, Peter.” Peter turned back to his boss.

“The Marshall’s have sent down two officers to keep an eye on him. None of our agents are authorized to see him. He’s high risk. It’s out of our hands until the DOJ decides otherwise.”

“I can’t even say goodbye?”

“I don’t think he’ll miss it, Peter,” Reese said gently.

Peter nodded, and half turned away but his heart was pounding and his fingers itched and it felt so damn wrong but there was nothing he could do. This was the job. Sometimes you had to do things you really didn’t like.

He knew that.

He’d done some things in his career that kept him awake. He knew this would keep him awake a lot longer than anything he’d done in the last four years.

This was Neal, and Neal had killed someone to protect him, to save Peter’s life, and in return they were going to send him back to prison.

With the potential to convict him again.

It turned Peter’s stomach, but there was nothing he could do.

Hughes cuffed Peter on the shoulder and started walking back down the hallway. Peter glanced back at Neal once again.

How could he let them do this?

***

Elizabeth was waiting for him when he got home, just as he knew she would be.

Peter had barely been able to keep a straight face as he’d dumped his coat on the couch and crossed the room to hold her.

“We found him,” he murmured into her hair and she’d clutched him tighter, knowing at that moment that there was more he wasn’t saying.

And it was more he couldn’t say, more he couldn’t find the words to say until much later that day, when El woke him up, brushing his hair out of his face and smiling sadly.

She’d called Jones while he was sleeping.

Jones had told her the news that was spreading around the office like wildfire.

Neal was being sent back to prison the very next morning.

“I’ve been put on administrative leave,” Peter said as he sat down at the kitchen table opposite her. Her hands in his.

“They should have put me on it after I was signed out of the hospital anyway, so I can’t really appeal it. It’s procedure.”

“You found him, Honey, there’s nothing else you could have done. Now’s the time to rest,” she sounded sad as she said it.

“How can I rest when Neal’s going back to Supermax for saving my life?”  
El frowned and squeezed his hand.

“We’ll figure something out, Hon. I’ll talk to Mozzie and June in the morning. We’ll figure it out.”

“Planning a jailbreak, Mrs Burke?”

“What’s it to you, Mr Burke?” she goaded, for the briefest moment she smiled and her eyes glinted and all his worries lifted away. It always shocked him how she could make him forget the world. He didn’t deserve her.

“I’m sorry I’ve been distracted the last few weeks,” he murmured softly and El shook her head and took his head in her hands.

“It’s okay. I understand. You’re a good man, Peter Burke. You brought him back to us, that’s what counts. Now it’s our turn. We’ll figure this out, Peter. Have faith.”

“I do. In you.”

“You’re sweet. You should get some rest while I make dinner. It wont be long.”

“Yeah,” Peter sighed, leaning in to kiss his wife softly. She smiled at him sadly.

“He’ll be alright. He’s stronger than we give him credit for, sometimes.”

“I know.”

“You should go up and have a shower, I’ll put dinner on,” Elizabeth said softly, squeezing his hand again.

Peter brought it up to his mouth and kissed the back of it.

“I think I’m going to take Satch for a walk around the block, clear my head.”

“Okay,” El nodded, fixing him with a quiet stare, before she squeezed his hand back and slid of the chair and around the corner into the kitchen.

Peter watched her go before getting to his feet and going for the lead.

Satchmo followed him to the door and waited patiently for Peter to attach the lead and open the doors.

That was Satchmo, though, honest and loyal.

Peter took the dog to the end of the block before he even turned the burner phone on.

Elizabeth kept it on the underside of one of the drawers in the side board near the stairs.

The street was silent as he stood on the corner and waited. Satchmo whined and circled his legs as Peter stared down at the phone in his hand, before finally coming to a stop and sitting at Peter’s feet. Peter turned his gaze from the phone down to the dog, staring into the giant brown eyes staring up at him.

He didn’t know if it was the dog’s honest devotion staring back at him, or whether his own brain jumped through the remaining hoops of uncertainty on it’s own but either way it ended the same way as he entered Mozzie’s phone number into the phone and pressed call.

He didn’t know if he’d made his choice the moment Reese had told him what was happening or whether it had been in his kitchen ten minutes ago with his wife or any time in between. He didn’t know when, he just knew the decision had been made.

It nearly rang out before it was answered, and Peter’s determination was starting to dwindle, right up until he heard the paranoid man’s voice.

The moment he did, he knew there was no turning back.

“Mrs Suit?”

“No, it’s Peter.”

Mozzie was quiet a moment and in that second he made his decision.

“What do you want, Suit? You know you’re not supposed to call someone when they’re in the hospital. It interferes with the machines, you could put Neal in a coma.”

“You’re not supposed to answer either, Mozzie. But you did.”  
“That’s not the issue, Suit. You should have known I was here. Why’d you call?”

“Because of exactly where you are.”

“You’re not exactly one for riddles, Suit.”

Peter took a deep breath in. It was now or never.

He didn’t think he could live with himself if he picked never.

“I need you to do something for me, Mozzie; I need you to take him and run.”

The words were clear and decisive and there was no way that the other man could have mistaken them for what they were.

Mozzie was silent on the other end and Peter took another deep breath in, staring down the end of the block and into the distance.

“You know as well as I do what those Marshalls outside his room mean. They’re coming for him in the morning, Mozzie. To take him back. Do whatever you have to do and go.”

Mozzie didn’t say anything for a second, and it was all Peter could stand. He didn’t wait any longer for the other man’s reply. He couldn’t stand to hear it, anyway. He hung up and immediately turned the phone off with a long sigh. Part anxiety, part relief.

He was going to be in hell for that. He knew there would be an enquiry. His career would be in tatters, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t do it to Neal. Not after all this.

Not when Neal’s life was torn to shreds and everyone wanted to punish him for things that were none of his doing. They were Peter’s. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t justice. It was blatant punishment and Peter couldn’t stand back and let it happen. Not now. Not to Neal.

Peter breathed in, clenching the phone in one hand hard enough to break it. He had just broken the law for a criminal. But the thought had barely crossed his mind before he was tripping over it to change his own wording.

He hadn’t broken the law for a criminal. He wouldn’t. But he would for a friend.

He’d done the right thing in a sea of wrong. It was the right thing, but only just.   
But regardless of its consequences, it was the only option he could live with.

He’d deal with what came to him later.

***

The call came through at 11:34pm and once again, Diana Berrigan found herself lodged with the task of telling Peter.

Neal Caffrey had escaped.

Again.

~*~

 _Fin_


End file.
